


I Found You (But I Never Meant To)

by Inspire_me_to_breathe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, BAMF!arthur, Before Inception, Bit of torturing, Bonding, Denial, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Drinking Games, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Imprinting, M/M, Obliviousness, Pining, Romance, Sexual Tension, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Build, Soul Bond, They Just Don't Realise It Yet, lots of swearing, sexual identity crisis, soul mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-12 05:51:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2098056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inspire_me_to_breathe/pseuds/Inspire_me_to_breathe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames are soul mates so when they meet, they bond. It should be a simple, love-at-first-sight kind of thing, but the problem is Arthur is pining over Mal, Eames is terrified of bonding and neither of them actually realised it happened.</p><p>So they just go about their daily lives, not understanding what's wrong, until Arthur finally does work it out. And, even then, they need to stop being in denial and decide what they're gonna do about it. </p><p>Because being in love is difficult, especially when you didn't know you'd fallen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one of two, which will be posted when I come back from holiday. It was loosely inspired by the Counting Crows' song 'Accidentally in Love'. For now, rated M for sexual hints and lots of swearing. Will go up for the next chapter ;)

 “Why are you reading that crap, Mal?” Arthur snorted derisively over his newspaper, tossing her a glance and a raised eyebrow.

Mal mirrored his expression, setting down the paperback romance and setting her mouth in a curved smile. “Arthur, dear, it’s not crap. It’s a fascinating glimpse into the idealised subculture of soul mates and bonding. It’s a psychological study.” This was delivered with a perfectly straight face, which Arthur had to applaud, her only fault being the teasing glimmer in her eyes, and he fought to deliver a witty retort.

“It’s pathetic. People expect to meet their soul mate and fall in love just like that. Where’s the wooing? Where’s the romance?” Arthur shook his head tragically, “It promotes a lazy lifestyle, which is why I am boycotting all of these ridiculous novels and films. We should just work hard to impress a girl with dating and presents and anniversary dinners.”

“Oh, Arthur!” Mal exclaimed, clasping her hands to her bosom, “Is this what this is? I never knew you cared!”

She gestured grandly to the plastic wrapped sandwich which had been purchased at the train’s on-board shop. Arthur appraised it with a horror that quickly turned a little heavier.

“If I was wooing you, believe me, you would know it.” He said finally, tossing the newspaper onto the empty seat beside him. What has started as a light-hearted conversation had quickly progressed into something much more personal. If he was being honest with himself, Arthur would have jumped at the chance to take Mal out to dinner, at a fancy restaurant where the waiters suggested dishes and where you tested the wine before it was poured.

“I’m sure,” Mal grinned mischievously, “But I still think it’s beautiful. The bonding, I mean. Here, listen to this: _Daisy stumbled through the dancers, tears blurring her vision, when she suddenly ran into a warm body. She gasped, already apologising, but stopped when her eyes met with an electric blue pair. “It’s you!” She whispered, drifting closer to the man. He seemed just as stunned. The room had gone quiet. Nothing else mattered. They had found each other.”_

Arthur tried to adopt an unimpressed air but Mal’s bright, laughing eyes forced him to smile. He leaned back against the window, folding his arms as if to add an extra barrier of defence.

“Is that what it was like for you and Dom?” he asked carefully.

Mal paused, then gave a small nod, “It was. Not the detail; not the dancing, or the crying or the bumping into each other. But the _feeling_. It’s like you just know. That he’s… that he’s the one. He’s yours. Just like that.”

She smiled self-consciously, and reached out a hand to cover Arthur’s, “I know you think it’s only chemicals and hormones, but it’s deeper than that. It’s not biological; it’s emotional, spiritual. Call it what you will. It’s something people would risk everything for.”

“Not me,” Arthur said firmly, “I mean, what are the chances anyway? Like one point five percent of the population actually bond, and yet there’s so much hype surrounding it. Every rom-com or drama at the cinema right now features soul mates. Hell, even the action and horror films do!” Arthur sighed in resignation, “We are saturated with this idealised, glamorised version of an _improbability_ , and everyone subscribes to it.”

Mal seemed to notice a hint of bitterness within Arthur’s tirade, and she squeezed his hand gently, “You don’t need a soul mate to be happy.”

Arthur laughed harshly, “I know that. Although I’m sure all the additional legal benefits of being bonded help.”

“There _are_ disadvantages,” Mal frowned, “The physical pain at separation, the anxiety, the trauma if they die… It all worries me.” There was a break in her voice, as if simply the _idea_ of any harm coming to Dom was too awful to contemplate.

“Dom won’t get himself killed,” Arthur tried to reassure her, “He’s not that stupid.”

“No,” agreed Mal, “But he’s rash and bold and curious.”

Arthur couldn’t disagree, but he didn’t want to scare her, so he changed the subject as smoothly as possible. Mal noticed and seemed grateful for it. Anything for a distraction.

“So we’re meeting the forger at the hotel in Edinburgh?”

“Yes, he’s very good; works mostly in the Southern hemisphere but agreed to make an exception.”

“Why?” Arthur asked, intrigued. 

Mal shot him a deadpan look, “Because he’s heard of your reputation, dear, and wants to meet.”

“That’s…”

“Ridiculous? Insane? Illogical?” Mal supplied helpfully.

“All of the above,” he nodded, “Although I can’t blame him – I’m amazing.”

Mal giggled, and pressed a kiss to his forehead, “Of course you are.”

The feel of her lips against his skin was like a burn and Arthur winced. Part of it was down to the fact that physical contact with a bonded person was usually uncomfortable for anyone but their soul mate, but there was something else.  Arthur attributed it to his unrequited love for the women and the pain he felt when he saw how perfect she and Dom were together.

In truth, it was because Arthur was getting closer to meeting his own soul mate; he just didn’t realise it yet.

Fifty miles away, Eames was fucking some girl. She was a pretty little thing, just turned twenty and was visiting Edinburgh from some rural Scottish town. She had dark hair and very pale skin, almost white, but wasn’t a Goth or an emo, as far as Eames could tell. It was all natural, which made a nice change from the girls he usually picked up.

“Oh God,” she moaned, pressing her face against his neck, “Yes, baby!”

Eames gritted his teeth as he pounded into her. He hated that name.

“Keep going, don’t stop,” she panted breathlessly. Her nails were scraping across his back and her legs were awkwardly tangled with his. Strands of her hair kept getting stuck in his mouth. It was horrible and Eames had to try and spit them out discreetly. She started making little groaning noises, sounding like a half-dead cow, which was alarming and also quite fitting as she probably was raised on a farm in the middle of God knows where in the Scottish highlands by barbarians. Who most likely ran around naked painted blue.

Eames frowned. This wasn’t working.

He continued for a couple more thrusts, but his cock had already admitted defeat and was softening before he’d even made the decision to call it a night. The girl pouted when he pulled away, “What’s wrong, baby? You okay?”

“Too much alcohol,” Eames lied painfully as he searched the floor for his shirt. The girl stared at him, looking slightly put out.

“Just come back to bed then,” she suggested, “We can try again in the morning.”

He shook his head vehemently, “I don’t sleep over.”

The girl sighed in a dramatic way and collapsed backwards against the pillows, “Fine. Leave, you stupid fuck. Just close the door behind you.”

“Glad to.” Eames growled. He scooped up his remaining possessions and marched out of the hotel room, cursing young Scots women and their vulgar mangling of the English language.

Eames tried to avoid confronting his own impotency. It must have been the girl’s fault. She’d been too noisy, too young, too vapid. See, Eames appreciated a partner with a bit of intelligence. He should have known a girl wearing that short a dress would be lacking in the brains department.

The walk from her hotel to his was short, but the night air was brisk enough to make even that length of time quite uncomfortable. The forecast was predicting snow, or, at the very least, an intense amount of ice, which Eames was actually looking forward to. Some of his earliest memories were of skating and building snowmen with his family. He hadn’t experienced a climate of less than ten degrees in years. The sweltering hot countries he now frequented wouldn’t know what snow was if it hit them during a storm and proceeded to bury half the land in white, cold stuff that got inside your boots and made your socks wet. So being in Scotland was rather refreshing. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason he agreed to come back to his old territory and work this job for Cobb and his stunning soul mate, Mal; he wasn’t even sure what the mission entailed, or who else would be working with him and the Cobbs. For all he knew, it might be a clusterfuck from the start, in which case he would migrate south as hastily as possible.

Eames tiredly called the elevator down to the lobby. It was strange, but recently he’d been feeling so drained. That was probably the result of his ‘wanted’ status in mainland Europe and the subsequent fleeing from the law, but it left Eames with awful headaches and a bad temper. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was somehow drawing to the end. The end of what; only God knew. But the end of something.

He glanced over to the hotel bar, and was faintly surprised to see Cobb nursing a glass of some clear liquid. The man looked pretty bad. Obviously the separation from his soul mate was taking its toll on him, if the bags under his eyes and the rumpled suit were anything to go by.

Eames wandered over, the elevator now abandoned, and perched on the bar stool next to Cobb’s. He motioned for the bar tender to fetch him a glass of whatever the blonde man was drinking, and then turned to address his colleague.

“One more day, mate,” Eames slipped on a friendly smile, forcing Cobb to meet his gaze and return his own, stilted version.

With a self-deprecating nod, Cobb echoed, “One more day,” and held up his glass in a toast.

Eames smirked and raised his own glass before swallowing the vodka down in one. Dom was a little more tentative with his sip, but then this could well be his third or fourth of the night. Eames took a closer look and realised the man’s hands were shaking; a slight trembling that caused ripples to skate across the surface of the vodka.

“How long has it been?” Eames asked, trying not to sound too inquisitive or insensitive.

“Almost two weeks,” admitted Dom, scrubbing a hand over his face, “Before this, the longest was a week, during the Bernstein job. We barely ever work apart.”

Eames could only respond with a sympathetic smile, “Still, one more day.”

Dom yawned, “Don’t know if I can survive that long.”

They sat in silence for a while. This was not how Eames’ usual drinking sessions went; more often than not, he would be in a noisy shithole of a bar, drinking the strongest stuff on the menu with the prettiest girls in the place squirming by his side and the toughest blokes in the city laying down losing poker cards. This was very… tame, in comparison.

But Dom looked anything but tame. His hair was wild from being run through and his tie was lazily loosened, stubble darkening his chin and eyes bright and fevered. His sleeves were rolled up, and showing on his forearm, across his wrist where the blood vessels lay, his bonding mark showed visibly. It looked like a tattoo, composed of Celtic knots and dark ink, and Eames knew Mal had an identical one on her own wrist. Eames’ parents had a set too. Theirs were red, bold lines covering their shoulders, and Eames had always thought they looked ugly. He couldn’t understand how they just appeared when you met your soul mate. It was creepy.

The time had just passed one o’clock and so Dom excused himself to go to bed. He would need his energy in the morning for when the team was finally assembled and they could begin the preparation stage of the job. Dom prayed to God that Arthur and Eames would get along. They both had conflicting personalities, but were both brilliant. He hoped they would recognise that in the other.

Predictably, Dom’s headache was unbearable when he awoke, but the thought of seeing Mal again forced him to roll out of bed and get dressed. He took extra care when shaving today, but knew there was nothing to be done about his gaunt appearance. A few days with Mal would fix that. In fact, his hangover faded completely when he laid eyes on her. She was stunning and, when she saw him, she broke into the most luminous of smiles.

Arthur watched their reunion with barely disguised jealousy, exacerbated by his growing head ache. He knew the couple would be too wrapped up in each other to notice though, so he busied himself with preparing the work area. It was an old Georgian town house, built with sandstone and over-looking a busy residential street. There was plenty of space inside. Everyone had a small room of their own and there was a lounge that would be converted into a communal office. Frustratingly, the forger wasn’t here yet, so Arthur couldn’t calculate how much space he would need.

At some point in the morning, Mal and Dom disappeared together upstairs, and so Arthur was forced to avoid that floor unless he wanted to experience what soul mates did upon reunification after two weeks apart. From the sounds of it they were definitely still fully clothed and doing nothing more terrible than a spot of cuddling.

Arthur rearranged the kitchen single-handedly, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He was about to move onto the lounge but his head ache, which had been brewing since the early hours of the morning, suddenly got a lot worse. Arthur swore, dropping a stack of plates, as a sharp spike of pain flashed through his neurons.

“Oh, fuck this,” Arthur snapped, blindly searching for his keys. He stormed out of the house and hurried to the nearest pharmacy, not bothering to avoid fellow pedestrians if they were stupid enough to get in his way.

The fluorescent lighting of the pharmacy did nothing to ease his migraine, while the ridiculous breadth of choice of different brands of painkillers was as confusing as hell. Arthur grabbed the cheapest packet and took his place at the end of the very long queue.

As the lady in front of him enquired about the difference between fungal nail infections and bacterial nail infections, Arthur distracted himself by studying the posters on the wall. They were all generic, government issued health notices. _Don’t sneeze on people. Don’t catch the plague. Don’t get STI’s, you little whore._ Arthur groaned, wishing the line would magically disappear, or better yet, his _headache_ could magically disappear. That would be preferable. A very large, very pink poster caught his eye. Of course, it was about soul mates. Just what Arthur needed; another reminder that the girl he loved was bonded to his best friend and that he would end up alone in life, except for a horde of street cats. The poster was horribly obnoxious, decorated with little heart symbols and images of happy couples.

 _A Guide to Bonding_ it proclaimed. _Number one; there must be eye contact. Number two; there must be skin-to-skin contact. Number three; there must be the appearance of identical bonding marks within one day after first meeting._

Arthur rolled his eyes. Any kindergartener could tell you that. What disgusted him the most though was the advert for a Soul Mate Search Evening, hosted at the local church, where people would touch strangers in the hope that they’d magically bond. If only it were that easy.

Arthur paid for the painkillers and dry swallowed a few as soon as he left the shop. They didn’t seem to help his headache. It was still just as intense as before. Wearily, he trudged back to the house, planning a nice hot cup of peppermint tea and possibly a biscuit if Dom had picked up a packet like he said he would.

Unfortunately, when Arthur walked in to the kitchen, there was already somebody using the kettle.

A startled Arthur was a dangerous Arthur, and that’s why the first thing he thought of to do, instead of asking the man who he was or finding Dom, was to swing a heavy saucepan into the back of the other man’s head.

“Holy fuck!” The man stumbled forwards, clutching the open wound with one hand and gripping the sink to stay upright with the other.

Arthur panicked as the man turned around to face him, and released a sharp punch to the nose, causing the man’s head to snap back. Arthur’s fist felt like it was on fire, burning hotly as if he had touched a star. Maybe he had broken a knuckle. The other man looked in a worse state. Blood was pouring down his face and he was swearing over and over again in an English accent that was tainted by spending too long amongst other cultures.

“You bloody idiot!” he spat, glaring at Arthur, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Arthur demanded angrily, “Why are you here?”

“I’m the fucking forger, you twat!” the man snarled, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, “Mal let me in.” He paced the kitchen, moaning and cursing under his breath. Arthur watched a little guiltily, only now recognising the forger from a photo he’d been shown. In reality, he looked different. Way more attractive. Even with a bloody nose.

“Where’s the fucking first aid kit?” Eames snapped, once again turning his death stare onto Arthur.

The point man wordlessly yanked it out from one of the cupboards and shoved it at him. “Help yourself,” he muttered sullenly, before marching up the stairs to find Dom and demand an explanation.

He burst into Dom and Mal’s room and then yelled in horror, “Put some fucking clothes on!”

Dom looked up at him, slightly disgruntled, “What’s with all the shouting? Have you met Eames?”

“Yes! Thanks for the warning!” Arthur covered his eyes from the horrific sight of his best friends naked.

“What do you mean? You’ve been expecting him all morning. You knew he was coming. You knew what he looked like. What’s the problem?” Dom pursed his lips, wrapping a bare arm around Mal to protect her virtue. “What did you do?”

“I hit him over the head with a pan!” Arthur threw his hands up in surrender and turned on heel, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Downstairs, he ran into Eames again. Literally.

“There are no fucking antiseptic wipes,” Eames complained, holding out the once organised but now messed up first aid kit as evidence of this.

“Go and buy some then,” Arthur shrugged, trying to step past him but the Brit blocked his way.

“I have a litre of my own blood on my face, and it’s _your_ fault. _You_ go buy some.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Arthur hissed angrily, “Fine.” He stomped out of the front door and retraced his steps to the pharmacy, furiously lighting up a cigarette and taking a long drag.

It was all Eames’ fault. If they guy hadn’t surprised him… but Arthur was only surprised because he’d left the house to get painkillers. Which meant it all was all his headache’s fault. Arthur sighed, then stopped short. His headache had gone. Literally vanished.  In fact, his head felt clearer than it had for days. He frowned, contemplating this phenomenon as he waited in line with the anti-septic wipes. It must have been the distraction. Arthur had been bored, and his body had responded badly to that.

Back at the house, Arthur found Eames sitting at the kitchen table, slumped down with his head on his arms. For a second, he felt panic as he worried the man had fallen unconscious, but then Eames stirred, blinking up at him slowly before smiling and showing Arthur his bloody hands.

“I’m still bleeding.” Eames looked ridiculously pleased with himself, “Gonna need a transfusion.”

“If you can say words as long as ‘transfusion’, then you don’t need one. You’ll be fine.” Arthur said wearily, too tired to display any stronger emotions.

“Usually, I use longer words,” Eames frowned, “This is like using the vocabulary of a receptionist.”

“A secretary?” Arthur snorted, dumping the anti-septic wipes on the table, “That’s actually kind of insulting; despite the stereotype, many secretaries are very clever and use highly sophisticated lexis.”

Eames laughed, shortly, wincing in pain, “I meant like kids in reception, kindergarten, whatever you call a bloody five year old in the US A.”

“Oh,” Arthur paused, regarding the other man with concern as he continued to bleed messily over the table, “Are you going to clean yourself up?”

“Sure,” Eames muttered, standing up and then swaying suddenly as his face paled. He gripped the edge of the table tightly and then looked up at Arthur, “Can I change my answer?”

“To ‘no’?” Arthur considered it, “Fine. I’ll got get Mal. She trained as a nurse for a year. Don’t die in my absence.”

The groan Eames made as he left the room almost convinced Arthur to turn around, but that didn’t make any sense, so he climbed up the stairs. When he reached the door of Dom and Mal’s bedroom, the sock hanging off the door knob was a good indicator of their desire to not be disturbed.

“You’re gonna have to stop fucking some time!” Arthur yelled through the door, earning himself a muffled _fuck off_ as a result.

“Fuck you!” he shot back at them before stomping downstairs again. Eames seemed to be in a worse state than before; his eyelids were half closed and he was humming softly to himself. Arthur felt a stab of pity, and guilt. It was, after all, _his_ headache’s fault.

“They’re still busy,” Arthur stepped closer, “Enjoying the perks of being bonded,”

“Christ,” Eames frowned weakly, “I would hate to be bonded. What a load of shite.”

“Unlimited sex?”

“Fucking disaster. Couldn’t be tied down to someone like that. No freedom.” He buried his face in his arms, angling his body away from the point man. He looked a state.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Arthur muttered, pulling out a chair so he could perch next to the injured man, “I’m going to use the antiseptic wipes first, so it might sting a little, okay?”

Eames murmured an affirmative and remained very still as Arthur carefully dabbed at the wound.

“So did you train as a nurse for one year then, or am I being treated by a mediocre first aider?”

Arthur huffed a laugh, “No, I trained as a social worker.”

“You did?” Eames bit his lip as Arthur prepared to stich up the cut, “How come?”

“It’s a good job to do,” Arthur replied non-committedly, “Helping people, you know? Doing something that makes a difference.”

“I never knew a social worker that made a difference,” Eames commented mildly, “They just make things worse. Make everything too real. But maybe you were the exception.”

Arthur grinned tightly at him and picked up the needle, “You can decide whether I make things worse after I’m done piecing your head back together.”

Eames raised an eyebrow and said, “You are one scary motherfucker.”

“Thank you.”

Eames grinned, liking the challenge, and pushed the conversation on, “I haven’t been to Edinburgh for a long time. Do they still do the Fringe Festival?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur shrugged, “My first time.”

“In Scotland?”

“In Britain.”

“You never came here on holiday as a kid?” Eames asked without thinking, and immediately regretted it when the point man fell silent. He lowered his gaze, and focused instead on the soothing touch of Arthur’s hands working on the injury. There was a sharp tug, and then Arthur was done, snipping the thread and securing it with a plaster. He neatly put the equipment away and went to wash his hands, leaving Eames to gingerly inspect the damage.

“Feels good,” he called out as Arthur passed him to move into the lounge, gesturing for Eames to follow, “Turns out you _are_ the exception.”

Arthur paused, regarding Eames with scrutiny, “Did you doubt me?”

“I never will again, darling.” Eames smirked, and then blushed with embarrassment as he realised what he just said. That term of endearment was completely unintentional, and Arthur had gone red too and was now awkwardly standing at the other side of the room.

Eames swallowed nervously, and decided he wouldn’t dwell on the matter. They were both grown-ups, they’d get over it.

“So, is there anything we need to do?”

Arthur blinked, blushing again, “Right, for the job. Yes. Of course. We need to sort this room out.”

He started shifting the furniture, but his odd reaction had Eames wondering what conclusion Arthur’s mind had initially jumped to.

 

 

 

 

By the time Mal and Dom had dragged themselves away from the bedroom, it was already dark. Arthur and Eames had finished rearranging the work space practically in silence, and then had started on the pasta. They didn’t really use words to communicate, Mal noticed as she observed them working around the other, they just sort of _did_ , and the other would compensate.

“You boys getting on okay?” Mal stepped forward into the kitchen, her voice rising sweetly above the sound of the boiling water. “No more incidents?”

“None, thank you, Mal,” Arthur replied tersely, chopping up a pepper and scraping it into the frying pan, “We managed fine without any input whatsoever from either you or Dom.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Dom said apologetically, raising his palms, “But you know what it’s like, seeing Mal after all this time…”

“No,” Arthur snapped, “I don’t.” He slammed the pan down. The sharp clang emphasised his point.

Eames raised an eyebrow, and then stepped around him to put the pan back on the hob. For once, he didn’t feel the need to have anything clever to say. Mal frowned, obviously concerned, but Arthur was already wiping his hands on the towel, throwing it down and storming out of the room.

“What’s got him so pissed off?” Dom wondered aloud, “Was it something you did, Eames?”

The man shot his a disbelieving look, “No, it was something _you_ _said_. But I don’t want to get in the middle of this. You should go talk to him.”

Dom was momentarily stunned before turning to his wife for guidance, “What just happened?”

Mal sighed, “Arthur is stressed, that’s all. He’ll be fine.”

“Fine?” Eames echoed, “Who wants to be just ‘fine’?”

Mal met his gaze and Eames immediately felt defensive, although he didn’t know why, “Fine is fine.”

“Happy is better,” Eames mumbled, feeling confused and a little protective.

“Alright! Alright! I’ll go talk to him,” Dom gestured tiredly, “Are you okay taking care of dinner?”

Mal kissed him softly, “Go.”

Dom found Arthur sulking in the small garden around the back of the house, smoking some cheap cigarette. The smoke was hardly visible in the dim light, but Dom could taste it sharply at the back of his mouth, and coughed a few times as his body responded automatically to the smell.

“Worried you’ll get cancer?” Arthur said listlessly, resting the cigarette between his fingers, “We can always swap lungs, if you’re worried about the delicate nature of your own.”

“Keep your lungs, Arthur,”

“Keep your apologies.” Arthur snapped back.

“Hey!” Dom tried to look placating, “I _am_ sorry, Arthur, although I’m sure as hell not sure what for. You’ve been in a bad mood all day, and you’re taking it out on us.”

“I know, Dom!” Arthur ground a palm against the side of his head, “It’s just been really shit, with you and Mal in your own little world…”

“Are you jealous?” Dom said carefully, gauging a reaction. For a second, Arthur was scared his friend had worked out how he felt about Mal, but then Dom spoke again, “Of Mal? I know I haven’t seen you for ages either and I guess I should have made time for you too. I’m sorry.”

Arthur blinked, “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay? We’re okay?”

“Sure. It would have been nice to hang out just a little, catch up a bit, before you and Mal went off and left me alone.”

Dom relaxed, leaning against the wall, “You weren’t totally alone. What do you think of Eames, anyway?”

At that, Arthur felt a weird fluttering sensation, which he purposefully chose to ignore because he didn’t understand it, “So far I know he’s good at getting beat up by a frying pan, bleeding on my clothes and moving furniture.”

“He’s the best forger.”

“Well, I haven’t seen that yet.”

Dom studied Arthur hard, although the lack of light made it slightly difficult, “Give him time.”

 

 

 

 

It turned out an hour was all Arthur needed to be convinced Eames was the best forger. He hadn’t even been under with him, just the display of intelligence, of perceptiveness, of imagination, was enough to convince Arthur this was the best godamn forger in the world. Of course, he couldn’t say that aloud. Another very blatant characteristic was Eames’ ego. The guy was practically in love with himself, and treated anyone else in the professional context with thinly veiled contempt.

“Don’t just sit there looking pretty, Arthur, we need the intel before midday.”

The man in question spun slowly around on his chair to face Eames, who was busy highlighting information in the files.

“You think I’m pretty?” Arthur knew it was the wrong response before he even said it, but the sadistic part of him wanted to see Eames squirm.

And squirm he did.

“No, I mean. From someone else’s view. You might be considered. I suppose. Pretty. In a masculine sort of way.” Eames mumbled, trying to hide his blush behind his highlighter, “But that’s not grounds for a sexual harassment case so stop looking at me like that, Arthur.”

“Like what?” He asked innocently.

“Like you’re planning on how best to obliterate me, as you bloody well know.”

Arthur shrugged, “Obliterating is messy. I prefer a much subtler method of dealing with problems.”

Eames stared at him, mouth gaping comically.

Arthur laughed, “Now who’s sitting there looking pretty?”

“Okay, guys, enough flirting,” Dom raised his voice from across the room, trying desperately to maintain the balance of a flimsy looking cardboard model, “We do have a deadline to meet, you know, so team meeting. Now.”

He called Mal in from the kitchen which had been turned into her drug den, and they assembled themselves in a vague circular shape. Dom clapped his hands together to indicate the start of the meeting, “Okay, so, Arthur, what statistics do we have on Fusion Inc.?”

Arthur didn’t look at his notes, “Four managing partners, all male, sixteen partners below them ranging from senior to junior, of which three are female, and then twenty one employed in the Edinburgh office, not including facility staff, with a ratio of eight females to thirteen males.” He reeled off, “That should qualify as a gender discrimination law suit in any courtroom, but the complainant, Miss Sarah Whittaker, does not have any quantifiable evidence and so cannot prove the existence of discrimination, except for a letter Mr Ross allegedly wrote to his secretary, Dana Coleman, detailing how he believes women to be inferior in the working environment.”

“Exactly,” Dom nodded, “We need to learn the location of the letter. How do we get it?”

“I’ll forge Dana Coleman,” Eames suggested easily, tilting back in his chair, “He trusts her. They’ve been working together for twelve years.”

“And they’ve been fucking for three of those,” Arthur pointed out, “He’ll be too distracted to think about work.”

Eames narrowed his eyes as his idea was shot down, “How about a kinky scenario in which Dana doesn’t put out until he gives her the letter?”

“Too obvious,” Arthur smirked, “Try harder.”

There was a moment of tension as Arthur and Eames faced each other off.

Then Eames smiled, “Not Dana.”

“No,” Arthur agreed.

“We can set up our own court case.”

“Yes,” Arthur nodded, “Prosecuting Ross for-”

“Sexual harassment,” The forger cut in.

“At the workplace, _with_ Dana,”

Eames grinned, “But she’s on the opposing council,”

“Conflict of interests, I like it,” Arthur hummed approvingly, “So the letter is needed to prove they were in a relationship at the time, completely consensual.”

“Therefore, he pulls out the letter,”

“We make a note of its hiding place,”

“And – voilà! – we’ve got it in real life.” Eames beamed at Arthur, and was rewarded with a slight smile in return, “We are geniuses; it is official.”

Arthur and Eames simultaneously turned to face the married couple and were greeted with faintly surprised expressions. Mal broke into a large smile, ducking her head to hide it as she headed back to the kitchen.

“Looks like I’m not needed here,” she called over her shoulder, to which Dom let out a bemused laugh, “I’ll leave the _geniuses_ to it.”

 

 

 

 

The weather forecast was, for once, rather accurate in its prediction of cold. Arthur was curled up in a ball in the middle of his bed, shivering every time the wind rushed past the thin window pane. He had heaped up the blankets into a miniature fort but it didn’t seem to make a difference.

“For crying out loud,” Arthur hissed through chattering teeth, “Why are we in Scotland?”

He thought wistfully of the fireplace that was situated downstairs in the living room. It probably hadn’t been cleaned in twelve years, and was a certain violation of health and safety, but the idea of a glowing source of heat was enough to lure Arthur out of the blanket fort and venture downstairs, padding lightly so as to not wake any of the house’s other inhabitants. When he reached the living room he was surprised to find the fire already alight, flickering gently in the grate and casting long shadows over the floor. Crouching next to it was Eames. He seemed to be poking the embers with a metal stoker, gazing into the flames with tired eyes and a soft gaze, but before Arthur could even announce his presence, Eames looked up, breaking into a smile when he realised who the other man was.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Eames said amiably, and Arthur wasn’t sure to what he was referring to.

“Sure,” Arthur nodded, sitting down on the couch and stretching out his legs to warm his feet, “Sorry for intruding,”

“As long as Mal and Dom don’t want to share as well, it’s okay,” Eames flashed him a quick grin before turning back to the fire.

“They can keep each other warm enough without your help,” Arthur muttered. He watched the twisting flames in contemplation, “Actually, I’m glad you’re here; I don’t know how to light fires.”

“Really? They didn’t teach you that at Point Man School?”

Arthur ignored the teasing, “Where did you learn?”

“At home. We had a fireplace.”

“Must have been nice,” Arthur envisioned a large stately home, with large metal grates and decorated mantelpieces, but Eames shook his head.

“Thought we were gonna freeze one winter. It was awful. So cold,” He shivered involuntarily, “Electricity had been cut off because they were trying to drive us out. Mind you, if we had used the electricity, it would have counted as stealing.”

“You were squatting?” Arthur stared at the other man, taken aback at this new information.

“Yeah,” this was said in a tired voice, “After Dad had been injured. He was in so much pain, he couldn’t work and Mum couldn’t leave his side,” Eames glanced up at Arthur, “They were bonded, you see. It fucking ruined them. The house was repossessed. The council wouldn’t help us. We had nowhere to go and no one to turn to.”

“Fuck,” Arthur breathed, “That’s horrible.”

“If they hadn’t been soul mates, then Mum could have worked and we wouldn’t have been forced into the gutter.”

Arthur sat quietly, reflecting on this admission. He hadn’t been aware Eames’ parents were bonded, but it explained the man’s dislike of the idea. “Didn’t they love each other?”

“I don’t know. They acted like it, but, with bonding, how are you supposed to know it’s actually love and not just the forced result of chemicals?” Eames shrugged, “Soul mates are messy, complicated. When my Dad finally died, my Mum went with him. They weren’t even thirty, and I was _eight_.”

Arthur swallowed, “I’m sorry,”

“They fucked off together and I was left alone.”

Eames watched Arthur from under his eyelashes, and seemed to shift closer. Arthur slid of the sofa onto the floor beside him, legs pressed up against each other. He felt his breath catch, wondering what the hell was going on.

“I was orphaned too, in a way. In 1985 we ran away from home. Mom was an alcoholic and whoever my father was hadn’t stepped foot in the house for over a decade.” Arthur confided quietly, “I tried to support my younger brother, but I didn’t know how. I fucked it all up. I couldn’t control him, so the social services took him away.”

Eames rested a hand over Arthur’s arm, and squeezed gently. It was a comforting gesture, and Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he had experienced this type of kindness. With Mal, every motion had been laced with pity. With Eames, it was different.

“But that was okay, you know?” Arthur ignored the tears that were balancing on the precipice of his eyelashes, “He has a better live now. Enough food. Enough clothes. A good education,” he sighed, resting his head against Eames’ shoulder, “I wanted to be social worker so I could save someone too.”

“You still could,” Eames whispered, “Save someone, I mean,”

“Are you volunteering?”

There was no response for that, and Eames and Arthur settled closer to each other; comfortable enough in front of the fire. Comfortable enough with each other.

 

 

 

 

Arthur strutted about the court room, admiring the highly polished surfaces and the dark wood. He tested out the judges’ chair, and was pleased with the natural feeling of superiority that resulted.

“Looking good,” Eames called out, laughing as he leaned over the railing of the jury box, and Arthur wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the architecture or… something else.

“Not from where I’m standing,” Arthur looked pointedly at the forger to make his meaning obvious, “Pretty shabby, if I’m honest.”

“Don’t act jealous, Arthur. It’s not very attractive and you can’t afford to be any uglier.”

“Eames,” Dom raised his voice so it travelled across the courtroom, “Is there enough room for fifteen jurors in there?”

“Fifteen?” Arthur paused in his inspection of the bench, “Oh right, yeah. We’re in Scotland.”

Eames gauged an estimate of the space available, “It’s a little cosy in here.”

“No problem, that’s a minor adjustment,” Dom took it in his stride, “Although I’m concerned with the amount of projections we’re gonna need at close proximity because of the court room. I prefer to keep my distance.”

“Mal said she was working on a special formula to lower any tensions and keep everyone feeling relaxed, except Ross,” Arthur spread his hands wide, gesturing over the expanse of the jury box and to where Dom stood at the back of the court, “As judge, you should be able to keep control of the hordes. Just keep banging your gavel.”

“Great advice,” Dom rolled his eyes, “At least Ross has little knowledge of the law system, otherwise we’d be screwed. This looks like it’s straight from a crime drama.”

“Don’t worry about the little details. That’s Arthur’s job.” Eames suggested, “Anyway, it’s a dream. Ross won’t notice as long as everything _feels_ real.”

He was interrupted by the chiming of a non-existent clock. Arthur automatically flinched, on guard despite the lack of threat, “Mal is introducing the formula into our bloodstreams now. Prepare to feel happy.”

They all stood, waiting expectantly, and then slowly, almost imperceptibly, Eames felt himself relax. His muscles loosened, and the worry lines smoothed from his skin. It was a liberating feeling, and, although he knew it was all in his head, Eames felt younger, happier, not so vulnerable.

“I like this,” Eames hummed, “It’s nice,”

Dom laughed, sounding surprised, “I feel like I’m high,”

Arthur glanced between the two of them, and when he met Eames’ eye, he felt a strange pulling inside his chest, and everything became clear. It was so obvious. He wanted to kiss Eames, and, if the hungry expression on the other man’s face was anything to go by, Eames wanted that too.

Which was weird, actually, if Arthur took the time to think about it, because he was straight and in love with Mal, and Eames had never done anything to suggest he was interested in him before.

But the way they were still staring at each other, hardly daring to breathe, feeling hot and flustered, Arthur didn’t understand. This was unexpected, and crazy, and probably Mal’s fault with her happy formula, and so he probably shouldn’t act on it, only he wanted to, he wanted Eames, he wanted to press his body against him, and kiss him, and lick his neck and feel his heart beat and tug at his hair and…

They woke up, and the feeling subsided slightly.

“Any problems?” Mal asked, once she saw they were all conscious again, “No odd side-effects?”

“No, none, not at all,” Eames stood up shakily and backed away, refusing to look at Arthur.

“No, everything was fine,” Dom straightened his hair and seemed fully composed, “It worked perfectly, actually, could barely tell it was there but I felt calm. Oh, I need to adjust some of the blueprints…” he wandered off with Mal to discuss the dreamscape, leaving Arthur and Eames alone.

Arthur licked his lips without thinking, and Eames winced as if he’d been stung.

“I’m going out,” the forger grabbed his coat, “Need a drink.”

Arthur nodded dully, watching as Eames hurried out of the room. The man had every right to go to a bar and have some fun, so Arthur shouldn’t be feeling so rejected.

But he was.

 

 

 

 

The club was noisy, so loud it was painful, but Eames basked in the heat and the volume, losing himself in the thundering beat of the music and the chatter of people, the feel of bodies shifting against each other and the smell of alcohol, sharp in the air and dull in his blood.

Some pretty blond thing approached him, smiling coyly from underneath fake lashes. She twirled closer, her dress floating out and glittering in the coloured lighting. She looked soft and utterly, devastating beautiful; far out of Eames’ league had it not been for the help of the cocktail she gripped in her hand. This was a sure bet. He should take her home, now, because he’d never get another shot with her. She sashayed closer and sang along to the club tune, her lips forming the words with purposeful seductiveness. One of her hands came to rest on Eames’ chest, and then she slowly traced the line of his collar up to his throat, but, as soon as her bare skin touched his, Eames felt a sudden wave of nausea.

“Fuck,” he jerked away, eyes wide as his whole body recoiled.

“Is there a problem?” She purred, stepping closer to slot her thigh between his legs. Eames felt the tightening in his stomach again, the desire to retch was overwhelming, and he pushed away from her and headed in the direction of the exit.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he panted, striding out into the cold air. The walk home was thankfully short, but the sickness hadn’t abated with the escape from the club. Eames burst into the kitchen, startling Arthur, who was reading at the table, and leant over the sink, coughing and heaving up nothing.

“Shit!” Arthur hurried over to him, hands fluttering in an attempt to help, “Are you okay?”

Eames didn’t reply. Instead he leant heavily on the sink and slowly stared out of the window. His breathing was slowing now, but his blood was still thrumming through his veins and he felt too hot so Eames pulled off his t-shirt and splashed cold water over his face.

Arthur scowled when the wetness hit him accidentally and took a step back, “How much did you drink?”

“One pint, that was it!” Eames tried to sound indignant, but it came out with a slightly guilty edge, “That girl must have had some virus, or bacteria or some shit,” He shook his head in frustration, ignoring the tremors running over his bare skin.

“You slept with someone?” Arthur’s voice caught. There was something deeply unsettling about that image.

“No! I was going to. She bloody wanted it. But then she touched me, and I felt sick.”

“Was she really ugly?”

Eames replied dryly, “No, Arthur, she was very pretty.”

“Then what was the problem?” Arthur cocked an eyebrow, and Eames couldn’t think of a suitable response. Tonight was just one more failure to add to the embarrassingly long list of girls he hadn’t slept with. Instead, Eames twisted around so he could lean his back against the counter and inspect Arthur’s abandoned book.

“Is that one of Mal’s trashy soul mate novels?” he spluttered, half laughing as a flush crept up the point man cheeks.

“It’s a classic!” Arthur argued petulantly, “It’s not so bad.”

“What a load of shite.”

“Okay, fine. It _is_ a load of shite,” Arthur agreed suddenly, “But it would be fucking awesome.”

“What would?”

“To bond with someone,” Arthur made a non-committal gesture, “It would solve a lot of problems.”

Eames regarded him with scorn, “Did you listen to what I said about my parents?”

“I did, and I know that sucked, but think about Mal, how happy she is-”

“Mal,” Eames interrupted suddenly, his gaze intently searching Arthur’s face. He had picked up on something, a slight fault in the point man’s voice that had given him away, “You love Mal?”

The words were unexpectedly painful to hear spoken out loud, and both men grimaced.

“I… I might _like_ her,” Arthur allowed, looking utterly miserable.

“Bullshit. You’re in love with her.” Eames watched him carefully, “How long?”

“None of your business.” Arthur looked away and ran a hand through his hair in exhausted defeat.

“Fine, you don’t want to talk about it. Let’s talk about something else,” Eames granted him suddenly, causing Arthur to snap back round to face him, a grateful expression painted over his face. Eames’ lips quirked up in a pained smile. He had noticed Arthur’s discomfort, and couldn’t help but try and relieve him. “What do you want to talk about?”

Arthur’s eyes roamed about the kitchen, looking for a distraction. His gaze fell on Eames’ heavily inked torso, “Why do you have so many tattoos?”

Eames glanced down, self-conscious all of a sudden, “No idea. I just keep getting them. It’s an addiction.”

“Better them than these,” Arthur slipped his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, “At least your tattoos won’t kill you.”

“Well, you say that,” Eames laughed, and Arthur smirked back, “Never been infected though so it’s looking good.”

Arthur made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like an agreement, “Looking good,” he repeated before realising what dangerous territory he had moved into as Eames turned away to stare resolutely out of the window again, “I like this one,” Arthur motioned towards a light blue, almost silver, coloured tattoo that rested between Eames’s shoulder blades. He couldn’t make out the shape, but he was drawn towards the complex beauty of the mark, “When did you get it done?”

Eames twisted his neck to try and see it, “Don’t know. Which one?”

“The silvery one,” Arthur tentatively reached out to trace the lines. The subtle twist of the ink was mesmerising against Eames’ pale skin.

Eames shuddered under his fingertips, “I’m not sure. I don’t remember. I was probably half-blind drunk when I got it,” he pointed to a different tattoo, a ugly black thing on his arm, “My friends dragged me to a parlour to have this one done when I was nineteen, but I’ve blanked out that night. They say it was done by a licenced artist but I have no recollection of the event.”

Arthur frowned. The perfect design of the silver-blue tattoo was too purposeful to have been an impulsive, alcohol-fuelled decision.

“And I can barely remembered this one either,” Eames gestured towards another on his collarbone, smirking, “Do you have any tattoos hidden under those long sleeves?”

“No, wouldn’t suit me,” Arthur pulled a face, “They suit you though,”

Again, it must have been the wrong thing to say because Eames smiled tightly and slipped his t-shirt back on, “So, do you wanna talk about it now?”

Arthur scowled, “No.”

“It doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t be ashamed if you’re in love with her,” Eames sounded a little hurt, “She’s wonderful, and dead sexy,”

“She’s bonded. To my best friend.”

“Well, yeah…” Eames trailed off, “Is that why you want a soul mate? So you can move on?”

Arthur lowered his head, biting his lip and looking guilty, “I’m just so fed up of feeling like this. Like _shit._ ” He moved away from Eames, putting the table between them. The half-light pooled around his features, casting strange shadows over the plains of his face and highlighting the soft curve of his jaw. “Because she’ll never be mine.”

 

 

 

 

The following week went by quickly. All the final points of the plan were settled, and the day of the extraction arrived. Arthur was feeling nervous, jittery in a way he hadn’t felt since high school. There seemed to be a lot of pressure to perform exceptionally well, and he suspected this had something to do with the presence of the forger.

They intercepted Mr Ross as he was leaving his apartment; halfway to locking the door and completely unaware of the three men who were lurking in the shadows down the hall. It wasn’t the cleanest ambush, due to Eames knocking an elbow ‘accidentally’ into Arthur’s ribs, but they soon had Ross securely back inside and lying awkwardly on the sofa.

“What time is it?” Dom asked as he set out the PASIV, all hard lines and total focus.

Arthur checked his watch which had been accurately set according to the BBC, “Seven thirty seven. We’ve rescheduled his first meeting so Ross isn’t needed in work until ten.”

“Good,” Dom muttered, reeling out a line for the mark.

Arthur set about arranging his own line, but when he glanced up to check on Eames the other man was at the other side of the room, prodding a potted cactus.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Arthur asked in exasperation.

“It’s spikey,” Eames shrugged, fascinated, running a finger along the smooth side of the leaf, “Imagining throwing this in someone’s face. I want one.”

“I’ll buy you one _after_ the job,” Arthur groaned, “Now get over here before you hurt yourself.”

“I’ve never got to touch one before,” Eames disregarded the command, “They just grow wild back home and you leave them be. This one is tame. It’d make a good pet.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and didn’t respond, deciding that if Eames was going to ignore him, he’d ignore the forger. Suddenly, Eames swore loudly, and Arthur turned in panic to see him clutching his hand.

“Fuck that little fucker!” Eames pouted, displaying a sharp thorn lodged on the pad of his index finger, “It pricked me.”

“Fitting,” Arthur muttered under his breath after the initial worry subsided.

“What?”

“A prick for a prick.” Arthur deadpanned, tossing Eames’ IV line to him, “Now get hooked up.”

“Can’t.” Eames collapsed down next to him, lamely attempting to insert the needle, “My finger’s swollen.”

“No, it isn’t, you pussy,” Arthur grit out even as he snatched the line and gripped Eames’ wrist tightly, “You’re just wasting time.”

“I’m a consummate professional!”

“You’re an asshole.”

Eames was about to counter with some brilliantly witty remark when he suddenly paused, just noticing the small creases forming on Arthur’s forehead as the other man focused on the task. They perfectly framed his chocolate coloured eyes, but added a melancholy air to the fine bone structure. All this Eames could see in detail, that’s how close they were sitting. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to touch Arthur’ skin just to test if it really was as soft as it appeared.

“Done.”

“Huh?” Eames’ eyes snapped back to Arthurs’, attempting to concentrate on the words instead of the flawlessly shaped lips that were delivering them.

Arthur looked up at him from under his lashes, a little taken back by their proximity, “I said, I’m done. You’re ready now.”

“Great,” Eames smiled effortlessly, pulling back and forcing his eyes away from Arthur’s face, “Let’s go.”

 

 

 

 

They didn’t see each other for three months. The job had gone well; they’d been paid and went their separate ways, as per usual. The point man had decided to distance himself from Mal and was currently in Australia, on what some might call a ‘vacation’.  Arthur called it, ‘self-imposed hell’.

Eames had remained in Scotland and slowly migrated south, over the border into his homeland. The streets of Manchester were the same as they always were, nothing had changed, but Eames felt different, sick with himself, although he didn’t know why. Most night he ended up with Yusuf, an old buddy from his early days in dreamshare, and they drank too much in shithole bars.

“You need to find a new job,” Yusuf told him one evening, having drunk enough to reach a moment of abstemious sobriety, “You’re bored.”

“I’m not ‘bored’, thank you for the assessment, Dr Freud,” Eames mocked him, downing another shot, “I’m just…”

“What?” Yusuf smirked, “You’re just what?”

“Pissed,” Eames eloquently decided. He was playing with his phone, tapping random numbers in. Eleven digits. That could be someone’s mobile. Eames was tempted to call it, just to see if anyone would answer. His finger was hovering over the dial button when a drunk knocked against him and Eames dropped the phone. When he retrieved it from the floor, the number was gone, and Eames felt a little bit sicker.

“Yusuf, what do think about soul mates?” he asked suddenly and completely unexpectedly.

“Why, do you think you’ve found one?” Yusuf teased, sipping his drink with an amused expression, “Imagine that; Eames, the most anti-bonding guy who ever existed, has a soul mate. Who’s the lucky girl, then?”

“Sod off,” Eames snapped, “I was just asking… oh, forget it.”

“No, seriously though, Eames, if you want to talk, I’m here.” Yusuf tried to sound sincere, but the beer thwarted his attempts, as honest as they were.

“I don’t have a soul mate,” Eames whispered, his voice sounding sad without it meaning to.

 

 

 

 

Arthur was stretched out on a hotel bed, a cigarette dangling from his lips. An old vinyl was playing and, above his head, a moth fluttered against the ceiling.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Arthur asked the moth, “There’s no point; it’s a ceiling, not the sky.”

The moth ignored him, partly because Arthur’s advice was depressing, and partly because it was a moth and couldn’t understand him anyway.

At that moment, there was a light knock on the door, and Arthur heaved himself off the bed in resignation and flicked the safety off on his gun.  Through the peephole, Arthur could make out the distorted shape of Nash, who was, as usual, two hours late for their meeting.

Arthur wrenched open the door and glared at him, “Well, nice of you to show up.”

“Piss off, Arthur, I was delayed,” Nash snapped, storming into the room, “Now, I’ve been contacted by Kathleen and she has a proposal for a job, but she has no point man yet. What do you say?”

“Don’t be a complete retard, and tell me what the job involves before you ask me again whether I’ll agree to it or not.” Arthur requested derisively.

“Corporate espionage; very smooth, very assured.”

Arthur curved a sardonic eyebrow, “Nothing in this business is assured, Nash. Rookie mistake.”

“That’s what I’m hiring _you_ for.”

Arthur allowed him that, “Who else is on the team?”

“Sara Rivkin is the chemist. That’s it for now, although we need a forger.”

“Eames.” Arthur blurted out the name without thinking, but Nash pulled a face.

“Nah, he’s too unreliable.”

Arthur was stunned, “What?”

“Unreliable,” Nash shot him an odd look, “He refused to work with McGurk last month.”

“Because McGurk is an asshole!”

“It was a solid job-”

“That he fucked up!” Arthur eyed Nash like he was crazy, “Eames is the best godamn forger in the world. He is a fucking genius, and you know it!”

“Whoa, Arthur!” Nash held up his hands, “I’m just saying it’s not a good idea to trust Eames with your life. He’s erratic, and, to be honest, a bit of a smarmy bastard.”

And so Arthur punched Nash.

It made sense in the heat of the moment, but, now, with Nash bleeding all over the hotel carpet, Arthur had to admit it had been a strange thing to do. A fucking strange thing.

Later that night, to distract himself from the slightly anxious thoughts in his head, Arthur travelled across town to the dark bars and streets. Nash was long gone. He’d cast one terrified glance at Arthur and legged it, swearing to tell all the dreamworkers how fucked up the point man was.

At this point, Arthur couldn’t care less.

The headache was back.

 

 

 

“Eames, my man!” Yusuf hollered, barging into his friend’s apartment as if the door had been left unlocked and wide open (it hadn’t).

Eames scrambled up from the sofa, one hand reaching for his knife and the other darting upwards to warily guard his throat. There was a wild look in his eye, the result of several sleepless nights on a diet of nothing but lager, and it took Eames a few moments before he could relax. Yusuf dutifully ignored the paranoia and settled himself on the chair nearest the television.

“You’ll never guess what,” he said mischievously, and Eames seemed too stunned to answer for a second.

“Er, what?”

“Arthur punched Nash. In the face.”

Eames barked out a laugh, completely surprised, and recognised the fluttering of pride, “Why the hell did he do that?”

“Why the hell _wouldn’t_ someone want to punch Nash?” Yusuf sniggered rhetorically, “Seriously though, and these are just the rumours, mate, can’t say if it’s true or not, but they say he did it because Nash was slagging you off.”

“Me?” Eames couldn’t prevent the wide smile spreading on his face, “Are you having me on?”

“No!” Yusuf smirked, “Apparently Arthur wanted you for a job and Nash didn’t. They argued and Arthur punched him.”

Eames shook his head fondly, “That’s mental. Did he think he was protecting my honour, the nutjob? I can fight my own battles.”

“Yeah, but Arthur likes fighting too,” Yusuf made a hapless gesture, “Gotta let the guy have _some_ fun. He looks so _dull_ most of the time.”

“Dull?” Eames paused, “Are you sure that’s the right word?”

“Well,” Yusuf reasoned, “He certainly seems bored, maybe a little constipated at the same time. Why, are you going to punch me now?” He finished this with a burst of laughter, and Eames grinned along, although physical violence had suddenly become a very appealing option.

 

 

 

 

The girl looked like Mal. Of course she did.

She had been the one to proposition him, and Arthur had gone along with it because that was the reason he was here. To have a good fuck. It had been too long, he thought, as he followed her to her house, since he’d had sex at all.

They skirted around each other, barely touching, flitting and dancing but never quite making contact. Arthur led the way through the door into the darkened bedroom, and she waited in the doorway while he surveyed the surroundings.

“Not bad,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, but Mal-look-alike responded anyway.

“It’s not much, but it’s home.” She coyly padded up behind him, breathing against his neck, “You’re so hot. So sexy. Can’t wait to have you in me, baby, I’ll make it good for you.”

Arthur moaned his approval, trying to ignore the headache. Mal-alike leant a little closer and he could feel the heat of her body, “You’re gonna fuck me so hard.”

“Yes, please,” Arthur murmured as Malike gently pulled his shirt off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

“Baby, you look so fine. I love your muscles, and your tattoo, and your-”

“I don’t have a tattoo,” Arthur said slowly, wondering if Malike was seeing things or if someone had drawn on his back when he had passed out earlier from doing shots.

“You do, honey. Right here. So sexy.” Malike pressed a hot finger against his spine, and Arthur flinched.

“I don’t have a tattoo,” he repeated forcefully, turning to glare at her.

She frowned, “It’s right on your back. It’s right there.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Does it matter? Can’t we just continue having some fun?” she whined, reaching out to touch him again.

Arthur jerked back, “Do you have a mirror?”

Malike glared at him hotly, then shrugged; obviously deciding the sooner this was over, the sooner they could get back to business. She went over to a drawer to pull out a hand mirror and handed it sullenly to the point man.

“Full length one in the bathroom,” She jerked a thumb in the direction of the ensuite, and Arthur hurriedly entered. He yanked on the light switch and positioned himself in the right place to see his back, if he aligned the mirrors correctly.

And there it was.

A tattoo. Silvery-pale blue, right between his shoulder blades.

“Ah, fuck,” Arthur closed his eyes, wishing away the sight of the mark, “How the fuck is this possible?”

Slowly, he opened his eyes again, allowing the time to properly focus on the tattoo and checking it was identical to the mark he’d seen on Eames’ skin before he started swearing.

“Oh my God, shit, shit, shit,” he chanted, feeling sick but also a little… good? He couldn’t believe he’d never noticed this before. But then again, it was in a rather awkward position. If Malike hadn’t pointed it out, Arthur was fairly certain he never would have realised it was there.

“Holy fuck,” he ground out, before grabbing his shirt and redressing even as he passed Malike on the way to the door, “Sorry, gotta go,” was the only excuse he gave as he left her in the dark bedroom.

As he half-sprinted along the street, Arthur pulled out his phone and speed-dialled Dom’s mobile, managing with one hand while he lit a cigarette with the other. It was picked up after a few rings and then Mal’s voice was heard.

“Dom’s phone, Mal speaking,” She said into Arthur’s ear, and he panicked a little bit because the last thing he needed right now was Mal.

“It’s Arthur. Get Dom.” He begged, trying not to hurt her feelings while conveying the sense of urgency, “Please.”

“Of course; he’s in the backyard. What’s going on, Arthur? Are you okay?” Mal’s concern was evident.

“Yes! I – I don’t know. Just… get him, will you?” Arthur was trying not to cry, because this should be the best day of his life, and it wasn’t.

Mal fumbled with the phone and distantly was the sound of Dom’s inquiring voice, before he came across clearly, “Hello?”

“Dom!” Arthur felt sick with relief, “Sorry for calling… I don’t know what to say.”

The older man sounded alarmed, “What’s the matter?”

“I think… well, no, I _know_ that I kind of, must have-” Arthur swallowed, “Bonded.”

There was silence on the other end, and then, “That’s wonderful! Who is she? Have we met?”

“Erm, yes. You’ve met.”

Dom seemed ecstatic, “This is fantastic news, congratulations! How did you two meet?”

“On a job.”

“Today? But you’re on vacation, Arthur.”

“Not today.”

“Oh,” Dom hesitated, “Arthur, you know it has to be on the day you first met,” he said gently, “So you couldn’t have bonded today.”

“No, I found out today.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur, I don’t understand. What is it you’re saying?”

The point man had no clue himself, and a shaky laugh informed Dom of this fact, “I met them a few months ago. We must have bonded then, but I didn’t realise until tonight.”

“Arthur-”

“We have the same mark, in the same place.”

Once again, there was the static. Arthur could hear Dom breathe, and, faintly, was Mal’s soft voice asking after him.

“What does she think?” Dom said finally. It was difficult to make out any emotions. The older man simply sounded a little worried.

“I don’t think they know.” Arthur answered truthfully, “Should I call?”

“I’m not sure this is something you can do over the phone. Will you see them soon?”

“Maybe. No. I don’t know.”

“Catch a flight,” Dom said firmly, “Now, Arthur. This important. Doesn’t matter what time it is for you wherever you are, you need to get on a plane and tell her face to face.”

“I’m not sure where-”

Dom interrupted, “If you have truly bonded, you’ll know where.”

 

 

 

 

So that’s how Arthur ended up on Eames’ doorstep, at more or less the same time he set off from Australia due to the time differences. Very softly, he knocked; half hoping no one was home, although Arthur knew the forger was.

It was strange to think he’d gone so long without realising he’d bonded with Eames. It certainly wasn’t the love-at-first-sight affair he had expected. He hadn’t even realised two men could be soul mates. It was all a little confusing. Arthur wasn’t sure what to expect, owing to Eames’ hatred of the idea, but all he knew was, whether sexually, romantically or platonically, he just needed to be with Eames right now.

“Arthur?” The door opened and there was Eames, failing to supress his grin as he took in the other man with one sweep of his eyes, “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“I missed you,” Arthur bit out, not even sure why he had said it. He just felt that Eames needed to know. The other man showed no obvious reaction, but Arthur could sense the confusion, and he shifted nervously, already stepping over the threshold. As he passed Eames, there was a moment where Arthur was tempted to kiss the man, but now he understood why, Arthur wasn’t too sure it was a good idea. Then he remembered what he was holding in his hands, and offered Eames the potted cactus.

“Arthur?” Eames asked cautiously, accepting the plant and inspecting it curiously, “Why did you bring me a cactus?”

“I said I would,” Arthur replied bluntly, “Try not to hurt yourself.”

Eames sniggered, “I’ll do my best.” He placed the spikey little thing on the table and then straightened up to face the point man, a heavy sort of fatalism about him.

“What are you doing here, Arthur?”

“We need to talk.”

“That sounds ominous.” Eames remarked dryly, “Why don’t you sit down?” He gestured towards the dusty settee and Arthur gratefully sank down onto the plush cushions. He waited until Eames was settled across from him before speaking.

“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it,” Arthur began, and then faltered when he caught Eames’ eye. He forgot what he was trying to do for a second.

The forger’s expression softened, “Just say it.”

There was a beat of silence in which Arthur gathered his courage and Eames stared at him.

“We bonded,” Arthur breathed, “We’re soul mates.”

Eames laughed, harshly, and bared his teeth in a grin, “Fuck off, Arthur. What a load of bollocks.” He shook his head, soundly fairly amused.

“It’s not a joke. Remember that tattoo you have? The blue one. You didn’t know where it had come from.” Arthur quickly pulled off his t-shirt and twisted around so Eames could see his back, “I have one too.”

The other man was very quiet for a while, during which Arthur clenched his fingers together with anxiety, and then the forger said, in a low, dangerous voice, “Get out of my house.”

“ _Eames_.”

“Get the fuck out!”

Eames stood up abruptly, and Arthur cowered, thinking he was going to get hit, but instead the forger grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the door.

“Stay away from me.” He hissed, “I don’t want to be bonded. Especially not with you.”

“It’s too late for that!” Arthur snapped, on the defensive, “It happened, okay, so we need-”

“No!” Eames pushed him out into the hallway, “There’s no _we_ , there is no _bonding_ and there is certainly no _soul mates_!”

The door slammed in Arthur face, and he stood staring dumbly at the cracked paint while his body tried to recover from the shock of it all.

“Eames?” he called through the door, a little desperately, “Listen to me. You can’t run from this.”

There was no reply, and, to be honest, Arthur hadn’t been expecting one.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Arthur and Eames struggle to come to terms with the bond, they find their lives becoming more dangerous by the day.

Eames found himself pacing the apartment, swearing at random intervals under his breath while maintaining a tight grip on the knife in his hand. Eames couldn’t remember picking it up, but now his fist was balled so tight there was a faint stinging of an almost open cut across his palm.

The other hand was preoccupied by reaching out and subsequently dropping his mobile phone as Eames debated calling Yusuf over and over, conflicted as to whether his friend would actually be useful in this situation.

And what a situation.

How the fuck had it even happened? How could you meet your soul mate and not notice? Eames would have put it down to the distraction of the frying pan incident, if that didn’t automatically mean conceding the existence of the bond. And that was something Eames refused to do.

Outside, he knew Arthur was still waiting.

“Oh fuck,” Eames muttered. He picked up the phone again, speed-dialled Yusuf and hung up before the first ring. There was no way he could talk about this with any other living human being. Just imagine his friend’s reaction. Shock, horror, pity… those were the words that sprung to mind, while a small voice at the back of his head reminded Eames that most people would be overjoyed to have bonded.

But Eames was not most people.

This was his worst nightmare come true. This was what he had feared all his life, and had actively gone out of his way to avoid. He didn’t get close to people. He didn’t look them in the eye when he shagged them. He had been careful around girls, and, then, all of a sudden, the rules were changed and Eames bonded with a man. With _Arthur_ , of all people. And sure, Eames felt close to him, even liked the guy, but to be his soul mate was not an option. There must be some way they could break it.

Eames strode over to the door and yanked it open. Arthur jumped in surprise, his face transforming from _fucking_ _heartbroken_ to ecstatic in under a second. Eames wondered if he was aware of it. Most likely the expression was completely subconscious; Arthur would never usually be caught displaying so much open emotion.

“Answer the questions,” Eames cut to the chase, staring at the man harshly, “Are you lying?”

Arthur blinked, “No!”

“Is this a joke?”

“For fuck’s-” Arthur breathed in deeply, “No, it’s not a joke.”

Eames grimaced unhappily, “Have you told anyone?”

Guilt flashed across the point man’s features, “Just Dom.”

“Arthur!”

“I didn’t mention names,” Arthur snorted, “He assumed it was a girl and I did nothing to correct that supposition.”

“If he knows, Mal knows.” Eames said dryly.

“Well, that’s how soul mates work,” Arthur responded, and then they both flinched, averting their gazes in embarrassment.

Eames stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. He studied Arthur intently, just as he always had done before any of this bonding crap got in the way. Subtlety, probably unconsciously, Arthur’s right hand clenched and relaxed, his fingers smoothing over his palm. Eames glanced down at his own hand, and tried to ignore the bile that rose in the back of his throat when he saw the imprint of the knife blade.

“Look, Eames,” Arthur began, his voice cracking in panic, “I’m a little freaked out right now, and I know you are too, but this is something we need to discuss. Can I come in?”

Eames hesitated, a rattle of fear shooting up his spine. Having Arthur in the apartment seemed far too intimate after their recent discovery. “No. I know a better place.”

He grabbed his jacket, shoved Arthur out of the way and headed to the local pub, because he was British and that’s what men did in times of great emotion.

Inside, it was dark and the décor was a little stale, as was to be expected. Arthur looked about warily, but followed Eames to the bar without complaining. He perched on a stool and waited patiently for Eames to stop ignoring him, lighting a cigarette with shaky hands to give him something to focus on. After twelve minutes and two pints, the forger finally turned to face the younger man.

“I can’t do this,” he said bluntly, “I just fucking can’t, Arthur.”

The point man breathed out smoke, “You don’t have a choice.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s what I hate about bonding. You _don’t_ get a choice. Your whole life is suddenly realigned and it’s like nothing you ever did or ever achieved before that meeting even matters.” Eames took an angry sip from his glass, and Arthur eyed him cautiously, “I don’t want to be bonded, simple as. Sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear.”

“I already knew that, I’m not an idiot” Arthur sniffed, “You’ve made yourself perfectly clear on many occasions.”

“Then why are you still here?”

Arthur paused, his expressions taking on a harsh quality although his voice remained soft, “I don’t know. I don’t think I _can_ leave.”

Eames gave him a derisive glance and stood up, pushing the empty pint glass away from him, “Then I will.”

“Eames!” Arthur grabbed at the other man’s arm, and the skin contact sent an alarming shot of arousal through his blood. Arthur quickly let go, but it seemed the shock was enough to keep the forger by his side. Eames was flushed, breathing deeply and biting his lip.

“There’s nothing more to be said,” he told the point man in a low voice, leaning in ever so slightly, “We break the bond. We don’t have to do this.”

Arthur frowned, “I don’t think that’ll work.”

“Of course it will! There’s been no consummation, minimal contact. Hell – I haven’t seen you in months and we’ve both been just fine!” Eames exclaimed, “Trust me, a few more weeks apart and this whole thing will just… fade away.”

“And you really want that?”

Eames’ gaze was intense, “It’s not about wanting it. We _need_ it to go away.”

“Dom and Mal-”

“In this business, they’re putting each other in danger every single day,” Eames looked sad and a little bitter, as if he was actually thinking about his parents, “If one of them dies, the other most likely will too; the stronger the bond, the stronger the pain. That’s why we need to weaken it now, before it becomes permanent.”

“Eames, this was supposed to be my salvation. Bonding was supposed to get me over Mal,” Arthur replied darkly, “You only get one soul mate, one chance at happiness. If I let you go, then it’s _certain_ that there will be no one left for me.”

“I’m not going to be your distraction from your unrequited love,” Eames said harshly, “You see? This is what I hate! We’re not soul mates because we _love_ each other. We’re soul mates because our pheromones align. We don’t want this.” Eames was tearing the label off his beer bottle, his fingers moving quickly in agitation, “I never wanted this.”

“I always did,” Arthur retorted, “If we let this fade, it’ll still be here, faint and broken, but still alive. Neither of us will get what we want. You will still have a soul mate, and I still wouldn’t have bonded. How is that fair?”

“Life isn’t fair,” Eames said after a moment’s silence, and Arthur set his mouth in a hard line to prevent him from saying anything he’d regret later. “Plus, I’m not gay. You’re not gay. How would this even work?” There was a faint laugh in his voice, a small bubble of hysteria, and Eames smiled to himself, “I don’t fancy being celibate the rest of my life.”

Arthur’s face reddened, “We’d make it work.”

“Oh yeah?” The forger raised an eyebrow, “You’re not trying to seduce me, are you?”

He shook his head too quickly and almost fell off the bar stool. Despite not having drunk anything, Arthur felt light-headed and ill, and Eames didn’t look any better.

“This is not going to end well,” the point man sighed, “It never does.”

“It will,” Eames promised, standing up again to leave, “We just have to keep our distance and everything will turn out fine.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t have a medical degree.”

“Neither do you, but I still let you stitch my head up,” Eames said kindly, “Have a little faith in me, darling, but just don’t come knocking on my door again.”

“It’s a small world; we’ll run into each other on a job.”

“Not if I can help it,” Eames hummed, sauntering as he turned away, “Good bye, Arthur.”

The younger man sighed, resting his arms on the bar and refusing to watch the forger leave. It was clear Eames had made his decision, and nothing Arthur said could change that.

 

 

 

 

The phone rang at eleven o’clock and Arthur was jerked out of a light stupor. He fumbled blindly in the unfamiliar hotel room for his mobile, smashing an ash tray in the process, and was unreasonably disappointed to see it was just Dom.

“Hi,” he yawned, a little annoyed.

Dom sounded cheerful, “How did it go?”

“How did what go?”

“Come on! How did she take the news?”

Arthur pulled a face, considering his next words carefully, “Badly. Very… badly.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not sure. It all just,” Arthur swallowed, “Fucked up. Really, really fucked up.”

Dom was silent, and each passing second made Arthur more anxious, “You need to go to a clinic then. In the morning. Going this long without consummating the bond is dangerous for both of you. If she doesn’t want to listen, you should at least take care of yourself.”

Arthur shook his head mournfully, “I can’t, Dom,”

“Don’t be silly, Arthur. The tests aren’t _too_ invasive. Some are actually quite enjoyable, speaking from personal experience.”

Arthur’s cheeks flooded red in embarrassment, “Don’t say that. Ever.”

“It’s just a metal rod-”

“Enough!” Arthur demanded hastily, feeling disturbed. “It’s not so easy. Because, well…”

“Well what?”

Arthur’s panic made it a question, “He’s a guy?”

Dom laughed, and Arthur hated him a bit more. “It’s not fucking funny.”

“I’m sure you can request a female doctor if that makes you feel more comfortable.” Dom sounded rather amused, “Honestly, modern men with their aversion to anything remotely homo-erotic.”

Arthur gaped, despite knowing Dom could not see his open mouth down the end of the phone, “You are an idiot, Dom. A fucking idiot.”

It was said with little bite, but Dom still seemed hurt when he replied, “I’m just teasing, you know. So what _is_ the issue?”

“ _He’s_ a guy. My soul mate. Is male.” Arthur closed his eyes, “With man bits.”

“Arthur!” Dom was scandalised, “That’s-”

“Bullshit?” Arthur interrupted, “Impossible? Really, really fucking messed up?”

“You really do need to see a doctor.”

“Oh, fuck _off_ , Dom!” Arthur moaned, pressing the cool plastic to his skin for a second in an attempt to calm down a little. When he had recovered slightly, Arthur spoke again. Thankfully, Dom hadn’t hung up. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Are you gay?”

“That is not a helpful thing to ask,” Arthur gritted out, blushing furiously.

“Well, maybe it makes a difference. Have you ever fucked a man?”

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no.”

“That’s a lot of ‘no’s.”

“Well observed.” Arthur said dryly, “Please, Dom. What do I do?”

The older man sighed, “You really do need to see a doctor. If you don’t trust the hospitals right now, is there a chemist in the area that you could talk to?”

Arthur shrugged, “Maybe. There’s one guy who might be able to help.”

“Well, visit him and hope he takes pity on you.”

“Great,” Arthur rolled his eyes, “Thanks.”

“One more thing; who is it?”

“The chemist or…?” Arthur couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, but Dom had no qualms.

“Your soul mate,” he said decisively, “Who is he?”

Arthur smiled blandly, already imagining Dom’s face when he heard, “The absolutely _worst_ person in the world to be bonded to; Eames.”

 

 

 

 

 

After procrastinating a little (four days, to be precise) Arthur summoned up the courage to give Yusuf a ring. Luckily, the man was in the area, and agreed for Arthur to drop by his flat that evening.

“So, what did you want to discuss?” Yusuf had donned a pair of half-moon spectacles, which Arthur found oddly reassuring. It created the illusion of sanity.

“I bonded. About three months ago, and I know you would have covered the chemical side of it in your collage degree,” Arthur started, rubbing at his temples as the now-routine headache kicked in. No doubt Eames had freaked out over a spider or stubbed his toe or some other crap, “The problem is, I mean, the reason I didn’t go to a clinic, is that my soul mate is male.”

Yusuf peered at him owlishly, and Arthur felt that he’d suddenly become the most interesting person in the world, “How extraordinary.”

“Well, no, actually. It’s not extraordinary. It’s a pain in the ass,” Arthur noticed Yusuf’s smirk and hastened to add, “Not literally.”

“So there’s been no consummation?”

“None,” Arthur confirmed, “He’s been avoiding me since he found out, and won’t answer my calls or open the door.”

“That doesn’t sound good. For most normal – I mean, _traditional_ – couples, the pain of non-consummation reaches a peak after the one hundred and fifty day mark,” Yusuf glanced at Arthur, “Which, for you, seems pretty imminent,”

Arthur did a quick mental calculation and paled noticeably, his thoughts immediately skipping to Eames, “That gives us three days.”

“It’s not going to get better. Many n/c couples risk death if they remain separated,” Yusuf said sympathetically, “You are both in danger.”

“Fuck,” Arthur whispered, “So if we don’t consummate, we die? That’s what you’re telling me?”

“Consummation is only one kiss,” Yusuf pointed out, “You don’t need to shag him.”

“Well that’s reassuring!”

“Calm down, Arthur,” Yusuf tutted, “I heard you were good under pressure,”

Arthur groaned, “I’m so out of my depths here,”

“You need to stay close to him for the next few days.”

Arthur shook his head, “I already told you, he won’t see me. I think he’s trying to break the bond.”

“In that case, you need to stay close to _me_ so I can monitor any developments, and provide medical care if necessary,” Yusuf paused to consider the situation, “I’m booked for a job, starting tomorrow in this area, and we could do with another experienced member. A last minute deal means the Cobbs have joined the team. You’re friendly with them, aren’t you? And to be around a mature bonded couple will be good for you.”

Arthur was surprised, “They took a job without me?”

“I thought you were on holiday,” Yusuf frowned, “Besides, subconsciously, they could probably sense your unconsummated bond and felt it best to keep their distance.”

“Great, so now I’m a leper,” Arthur muttered, “Fine, I’ll do the job,”

 

 

 

 

 

For the first time in weeks, Eames fell asleep straight away. He hadn’t even bothered going to bed, instead slumping on the couch watching re-runs because he’d assumed tonight would be like any other, where he would toss and turn with a horrible clenching feeling in his chest and erratic thoughts in his head.

Now he was asleep, and dreaming. Dreaming of dark eyes and dimpled smiles. A warm touch, fingers skating over his collar bone, and wet lips, pressing kisses along his jaw. He could hear muffled pants, breaths of air stolen from his own lungs, and words that were bitten against his skin.

Eames jerked awake, sweating and swearing. He crashed off the sofa and stumbled to the bathroom. Logic told him he should be feeling sick, repulsed, but he wasn’t. Just for good measure, he tensed over the toilet, poised for any illness, but nothing came, and he slumped back against the bath tub in weary defeat.

“This is ridiculous,” Eames sighed, “Just because we bonded, doesn’t mean I want to fuck him,”

His body disagreed, and, without really realising, Eames reached down to touch himself. His dick was aching, straining against his pyjama bottoms, and he gripped it tightly and moved his hand in short, decisive strokes.

Again, he saw a flash of dark eyes and smooth, tanned skin. A smell; woody and heavy, making him light-headed with lust.

“God, Arthur,” Eames moaned, his hips bucking up against his hand, against his will, “Fuck!”

He could almost feel Arthur, slotted above him, his hands resting on Eames’ chest. Their foreheads were touching and Arthur was whispering profanities and prayers.

“I can’t,” Eames whimpered, but phantom Arthur was moving against him, so solid and warm. So fucking hot. Eames could barely breathe; he gasped for air but couldn’t remember how it was supposed to work in his lungs. All he could think about was Arthur, and the man’s weight above him. “Arthur, oh my God, Arthur!” Eames came in a shout, visions of the point man still burning against his eyelids, which were screwed tight in desperation.

Once he had recovered, Eames looked guiltily about him. There was no one else here, of course, although it felt like Arthur had been with him all the time.

Yusuf found him in the bathroom the next morning, but now dressed and showered and in the middle of cleaning his teeth.

“Eames, get a move on, will you?” he scanned the messy flat with concern, “God, you’ve really gone to shit. This place looks like a bomb hit it.”

“Thank you, Yusuf,” Eames seemed distracted. He grabbed his phone and wallet and shrugged on a coat, “Haven’t really had the time to clean, what with my mid-life crisis. Plus, the maid refuses to work after I made dirty comments about her older sister.”

Yusuf laughed, “Luckily you won’t be living in this pigsty for the next month. The maids at the travel lodge in Chorley are required to clean your room, no matter how insulting you are about their relatives.”

“We’ll see about that,” Eames chuckled, locking the door behind him. He practically skipped down the stairs, already feeling the welcome distraction of work pushing all thoughts of Arthur to the back of his mind, “Thanks for getting me on this job, Yusuf. You’re right; it will be good for me, although I have a sneaking suspicion that Jacob wants me dead. Please let me know if you see him skulking about behind the hotel’s rubbish bins.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Yusuf threw Eames his car keys, “You can drive.”

 

 

 

 

Mal looked stunning, casually dressed but still elegant. Arthur felt a warm rush of affection for her as they embraced in a friendly hug.

“Arthur, dear, you are looking so thin!” Mal cried, “Have you not been eating?”

“Of course I have,” Arthur laughed and carefully detached himself from her grip, “I get my five portions of fruit and veg every day, I swear.”

“Alcohol does not count, even if it is made from grapes.”

“I know, Mal,” Arthur rolled his eyes, “But coffee’s still a vegetable, right?”

She smiled fondly, “Depends on how much sugar you take with it,”

“For Arthur?” Dom came striding into the room, setting the bags down on the hotel carpet, “No sugar, usually black, unless he’s got a headache and then just a tiny splash of milk in his coffee.”

“Hope you’ve stocked up on the milk then,” Arthur grimaced, rubbing at his temples, “This migraine refuses to leave.”

“Has there been no progress with the.. er-” Dom made a weird jerking motion with his head and wiggled his eyebrows. With a flash of appreciation, Arthur realised his friend hadn’t told Mal about Eames, even though keeping secrets from your soul mate was notoriously hard.

He tried to act casual, “Not really. Yusuf recommended I take this job, though.”

“Ah, good,” Dom said vaguely.

Arthur nodded curtly, and began unpacking the PASIV. It was methodical and easy to fall into the routine. That’s what he needed right now; order. Eames was the complete opposite. He had no order, he made no sense. Arthur would never be able to figure him out. Eames was a thunderstorm. He was rain and lightning and clouds, all the different elements that danced and crackled and moved in turmoil around each other to create one massive explosion of power and wild beauty. Arthur was not a thunderstorm. He was more like a summer shower; intense, sometimes unexpected, but never chaotic.

“Must you smoke inside, Arthur?” Mal complained lightly, “The smell is making me feel sick.”

“You used to smoke fifty a day,” Arthur pointed out, but he still stubbed out the cigarette to appease her because Arthur could never say no to the beautiful French woman.

“Well, things have changed now.”

The point man paused, “Meaning?”

Mal wore a small grin and she hushed her voice as if sharing a secret, “Now, I’m pregnant!”

“Fuck,” Arthur felt his heart twist and he tried to keep the panic out of his features, “Wow, that’s really… I mean, congratulations. That’s big. That’s fantastic news.”

Mal laughed, carefree and excited, “It’s the best news ever.”

Arthur nodded but his throat was suddenly dry and rough. This was just another blow against him. The girl he loved was having a baby and there was no going back from that. Arthur hadn’t realised until that point that he was still clinging onto the hope that Mal would leave Dom and they’d break up, but now. _A baby_. The happiness in her eyes was too much to bear. Arthur made a painful excuse and spun out of the room, fumbling with cigarettes and trying to keep his stained fingers from shaking.

 

 

 

 

“Have you got any cigarettes on you, Yusuf?” Eames asked as he navigated his way off the motorway junction, “I really fancy one.”

“Nervous?” Yusuf smirked, passing him the packet.

“No.” Eames shrugged, “Just a craving, I suppose. Although I haven’t smoked in twenty years.”

“Probably best not to start again, then.”

“Probably,” the forger agreed though a mouthful of smoke, “But too late.” He breathed it into his lungs, and felt queasy as his body tried to remember how to cope. “God, these are worse than I remembered.”

Yusuf snickered, “I hope they’re at least worth being in my debt.”

“I’m not in your debt,” Eames denied, “You’re my mate. You gave me it out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Sure, I did,” the other man snorted, “But I will be coming to collect.”

Eames tutted but made no reply as he concentrated on indicating into the Travelodge’s car park. The motel was bland and non-conspicuous. Perfect for running an illegal dreamshare job inside its understated rooms.

Inside, Yusuf and Eames checked into the rooms. The girl at reception sent Eames a flirty smile but when he tried to return it, it felt wrong. A little unbalanced. Nevertheless, she handed them the door keys with little fuss and they dragged their suitcases along the dingy halls.

“Forty six,” Eames inspected the numbering, “This is me.”

“It _might_ be you,” Yusuf pointed out, “But we have an extra team member now, so we’re gonna have to redistribute the beds.”

Eames shrugged, and placed his bag temporarily inside the threshold before locking it and following Yusuf down the corridor to the main team room.

“So who’s this new team member?” Eames asked as he pushed open the door to room fifty, “I thought we didn’t need any one else.”

“He’s more of a back-up,” Yusuf conceded, “You’ve worked with him before though, and didn’t kill him, so he must be half-decent.”

“Oh, yeah?” Eames surveyed the room with interest and spotted Mal and Dom, “Great to see you again!”

Dom looked a little caught out for a second, but soon had a sleek expression back on his face, “Eames. I didn’t realise you were working this one.”

“I knew about you.” Eames smiled, hugging Mal with one arm, “Who’s actually in charge of this job then? Does anyone actually know a fuck about what’s going on?”

“It _was_ John Meyer,” Yusuf waved a hand in exasperation, “Then he swapped with Mal and Dom to take on their job with Miss Palahniuk. I think he fancies her.”

Dom nodded, “We owed him a favour.”

“I slept with his wife,” Eames mentioned casually, “So, it’s just us?”

“No,” Yusuf smiled brightly and gesturing to someone behind Eames, “We also have Arthur.”

As if on cue, the young man stepped through the door, scowling furiously at the ground. He shoved a packet of cigarettes back into his pocket and looked up, seemingly about to say something, before freezing with a comical expression of shock on his face.

“Ah,” Eames breathed, “Arthur.”

Arthur tensed up, a wild look of panic now marring his feature. Eames took in a deep, shaky breath and said, “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Seeing the other man was a shock, something Eames hadn’t prepared for. He tried to ignore the deep aching in his chest and concentrated on the hostile elements of Arthur’s face; the pinched eyebrows, the thin lips and the sharp eyes, instead of the softness, the mirrored pleasure at being reunited with the other.

“I didn’t know you’d be here, either.” The point man said bluntly.

Both of them appraised each other while the occupants of the room watched the scene with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. Mal edged towards Dom, sensing the tension, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

Arthur took a tentative step closer. Eames didn’t move. He just continued to stare at the other man with wide, frightened eyes and Arthur felt a pang of sympathy, despite the anger he felt at the forger’s earlier words.

“Smoke?” Arthur held out the packet like a peace offering and Eames glanced down in confusion.

“I don’t smoke.”

Arthur smirked, “You smell like you do.”

“Well, I just had one. In the car. That was it.” Eames seemed flustered, but he accepted the cigarette and followed Arthur onto the balcony without any resistance. His movements were smooth, detached, as if he was in a dream. He found himself powerless to deny the draw of Arthur, and, while that scared the fuck out of him, it was actually very reassuring. The team looked on.

Once they were in private, Arthur offered the lighter to Eames but he shook his head and instead let the cigarette dangle from his lips, dry and pale. The forger turned his body to face the horizon, and Arthur settled himself calmly a few feet away, leaning against the wall.

“Are you gonna leave this time?” Arthur asked quietly, taking a long drag and watching Eames with careful eyes.

“I don’t know.” Eames replied truthfully, “I don’t want to be here.”

Arthur finished the silent end of that statement, “But you don’t want to leave.”

Eames sighed in agreement, “I want to want to leave, but I don’t really want to,” he chuckled to himself, “Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” Arthur said softly, looking down. The wind made him shiver.

“Are you okay?” Eames cast him a sidelong glance, “I felt… anxious earlier. That’s why I smoked. I wondered if it was you.”

Arthur looked surprised, then bit out a half-amused laugh that denoted resignation. Bitterly, he said, “Mal’s pregnant.”

“I’m sorry, mate.” Eames bit his lip in consideration, “That must have been hard.”

“It was,” Arthur blew out a lungful of smoke, “Burnt through a pack and then sat on the roof trying to decide whether or not I could jump.” Eames stiffened beside him, and Arthur smiled, “I couldn’t.”

“Hmm,” Eames made a non-committal noise and tried to disguise the way his heart was now hammering in his ribcage, “I suppose this messes up the breaking-the-bond plan.”

“Sorry.”

Eames grinned, “Not your fault. That bastard Yusuf should have told us who was on the job.”

“I only took it because he wanted me close, to ‘monitor’ me in case this non-consummated bond killed me off.” Arthur grinned weakly.

Eames frowned, “You what?”

“Apparently, at one hundred and fifty days, n/c soul mates suffer a fuckload of pain and die.” Arthur delivered the news with barely any emotion, and Eames was speechless.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he gasped.

“I wish.” Arthur remarked dryly.

“Hang on, wait. Yusuf told you this?” Eames questioned the other man, “Does _he_ know as well?”

“No, Eames,” Arthur rolled his eyes, “It’s only Dom. Mal knows nothing. I didn’t give Yusuf a name. _You_ are fine.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, it was.”

Eames couldn’t deny it, so he busied himself on removing the cigarette from his teeth and flicking it over the edge of the balcony. It twisted through the air as it fell, like a sycamore seed, and was quickly lost amongst the over-grown foliage.

“That was my last cigarette. All the stress from this bond thing makes me go through five packs a day. You owe me a smoke." Arthur commented mildly, although Eames didn’t appear to be listening.

“We can’t run away,” the forger said at last, an air of defeat ringing through his body, “What are we supposed to do?”

Arthur looked lost, “Hope for the best, I suppose.”

“I don’t fancy dying.” Eames sighed, “But this consummating thing? Not really high on my list of things I want to do.” He tried to ignore the sharp memories that surfaced from last night; the blood was now pounding through his veins.

Arthur nodded, “It’s just one kiss, then never again.”

Eames felt a thrill of fear, “No. Can’t do it,” he backed away, shaking his head like a nervous colt.

“Fine,” Arthur raised his hands in a placating gesture, “No pressure.”

But they both knew time was running out.

 

 

 

 

The first day working was painful, to say the least. Neither of the men seemed to be able to concentrate, although Arthur’s headaches had stopped. The rest of the team picked up on the tension and even Dom and Mal had found it hard to be around each other. Test running the dream levels turned out to be an interesting experience. Although they had been under together before, the new knowledge of their bond seemed to highlight every move the other made. Arthur could practically feel Eames’ thoughts buzzing under his skin as he tried out possible forges. In turn, Arthur’s lines of logic were drawn out for Eames, silvery cobwebs linking objects and people together. Usually, when working together, they would fight to make each other’s ideas as perfect as possible. It seemed harder to criticise now they understood where the other was coming from.

When the clock finally reached five, Mal threw her hands up in defeat.

“Okay! We’re done,” she exclaimed, leaping up in a spritely manner that would be impossible for her a few months down the line, “We need a break.”

Somehow the team ended up in a darkened bar, with the crowd humming, and a half drunk bottle of God-knows-what being passed around. Mal wasn’t drinking, but she was high on life right now.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair. It was hot and sweaty in the small room and, beside him, Dom and Mal were engaging in a competition to see who could stick their tongue furthest down the other’s throats. Arthur shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, trying to ignore the jealousy that was rising up inside him. One of Mal’s heels jabbed him as she curled up in Dom’s lap.

“Ow,” Arthur said loudly and very obviously, but he got no sign of acknowledgment from either of his friends. Annoyed and slightly sore, Arthur reached over to steal some of the cherries that were bobbing about in Mal’s cocktail. She didn’t even notice, so he stood up and left them to it, floating about the room, searching for some welcome faces.

“Hey, Arthur,” Yusuf bobbed up out of nowhere, beaming brightly and staggering a bit towards him.

“Are you drunk?” Arthur asked bluntly, biting down on a cherry.

“No!” He laughed, and then reconsidered, “Okay, maybe I am a little bit, but don’t tell Eames.”

“I already know.” The older man appeared beside them and removed a half empty glass from Yusuf’s hand. “You’ve had enough.”

“When did you become his keeper?” Arthur asked a little dryly, and Eames just pulled a face at him.

“He’s not gonna want a hangover tomorrow. We have work to do, and I don’t want him fucking up the compounds.”

Arthur didn’t comment because his gaze was drawn to over their shoulders. In one corner of the room Dom and Mal were being indecently close. “For God’s sake.” He grumbled in disgust.

“What?” Yusuf asked, turning to see for himself. “Oh, right. They’ve been doing that all evening.”

“Do you think they would have still got together if they _weren’t_ soul mates?” Eames mused.

Yusuf shrugged, “I dunno. Arthur was going out with her at the time.”

“Yusuf!” Arthur scowled at him, but the inebriated man was too busy checking out a busty blond to pretend to be sorry.

Eames cocked his head, “You and Mal dated?”

“Yes!” Arthur sighed in exasperation, “I _was_ about to propose and then – _wham –_ Dom came along and… there was nothing I could do.”

“You’d already bought the ring.” Yusuf reminded him happily, “Cost a shitload.”

“You would have married Mal?” Eames frowned, “Shit, Arthur. I’m really sorry. I never knew.”

 “So what?” Arthur was annoyed, “It doesn’t matter now, anyway. Look at them, about to start a family together. I never stood a chance.”

“It was so tragic!” Yusuf sighed in compassion, casting Eames a mournful glance on Arthur’s behalf before perking up suddenly, “But now he’s bonded and – _crap!_ I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

Arthur face-palmed, “Don’t worry about it, Yusuf.”

“I’m so sorry!”

“Doesn’t matter. He knew anyway.”

“He did?” Yusuf stopped looking guilty in a second, “How come?”

Eames smiled uncomfortably, but, luckily, Yusuf chose that moment to burst spontaneously into song. Eames recognised the tune, but was pretty sure his rendition contained explicit lyrics.

“Let’s dance!” Yusuf pulled them closer to the speakers, to where the music was so loud each beat rocked through their nervous systems. Resisting his grip, Eames ducked away from the dancing throb of people. Yusuf didn’t notice as he lost himself in the rhythm of some stale chart anthem. Arthur followed Eames to a quieter corner of the room, trusting that the current song would occupy the chemist for a while.

“Are you still in love with Mal, then?” Eames asked him casually as he drained another beer.

Arthur glared at him but was interrupted by a pretty redhead who descended on the table like a vulture.

“Hey there,” She smiled softly at Eames, and Arthur stood up in fury, stalking off before Eames could stop him. Reluctantly, he returned the redhead’s greeting, and she used this as an excuse to sit next to him. “I like your tattoos,” she purred.

“I like your face.” Eames responded automatically. It was not his smoothest, but, after a beat, the redhead laughed.

“Thank you, but I assure you, it is _not_ my best feature.”

At the bar, Arthur was engaging a young woman in conversation. She had very full lips and a violet tank top on. Eames could see her nipples from here.

The redhead was still speaking, “Many people have complimented me on my… sense of humour. Would you like to see more of my sense of humour?”

Eames gave her an odd look, “Okay? Tell me a joke, then.”

She smiled, “Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?” Eames found himself quickly losing interest in the conversation. Arthur had leaned in towards the girl, catching Eames’ attention as she laughed loudly. He watched the couple with a kind of morbid curiosity.

Something flickered inside Eames; an intense sickness, like jealously, but deeper. Eames was _jealous_. Of the girl. Because she was edging closer to Arthur and he was stuck on the other side of the bar with a redhead. He wanted to be in her place, he wanted to lay a casual hand on Arthur’s arm, to stroke the flushed skin with the side of his thumb, and follow the dips and curves to his chest. He wanted to _touch_ Arthur, like in his dream. The bar lights danced across Arthur’s face in a way that made him look like a stranger and Eames felt a building frustration inside of him that he couldn’t reach out and stoke along the illuminated cheekbone. From there he would trail his fingers backwards through his hair, tugging and teasing just the right amount until he slowly, carefully, brought Arthur’s lips to his and kissed him. The kiss would begin cautiously, but with every move of their tongues it would transform into a burning, reckless climax and Eames would work his way downwards, feel Arthur pressed hard against him as he slid his hands over bare skin, reaching lower until…

“Are you even listening?” the redhead enquired.

“No. Not really.” Eames said honestly, and, at that, she stole his drink in annoyance and took a spiteful sip.

Eames took the opportunity to further study the point man. He noticed the tilt of Arthur’s eyelashes, fluttering against his skin in anxiety, and the shape of his eyes which flashed with wariness.  Eames had never seen someone look so raw and so vulnerable. But there was strength there too; coiled underneath his suits like a serpent underneath a flower. Arthur was a threat. The eyelashes hid his emotions, the eyes noticed everything. This man had killed people before, and had been killed himself in dreams. Arthur was dangerous.

Arthur was beautiful.

“Fuck.” Eames breathed. He couldn’t bring himself to look away, but he couldn’t bear to see Arthur like this for a second longer. He felt it might kill him.

To the redhead’s obvious surprise, Eames turned and bolted from the room. He hurried to the back garden where he comforted himself in the relative privacy.

Maybe it was the steady mix of alcohol and the months of rejection that had tricked Eames into thinking things like that while awake. Maybe someone had spiked his drink and he was currently in the middle of a really messed up, violent trip. Either way, he knew that he was letting the bond and his confused emotions get in the way of perceiving events clearly.

Arthur may be beautiful, but he couldn’t let himself see it.

Eames took a deep breath in. The air was still warm even as the sun slipped back behind the horizon. He wondered if anyone would miss him if he left now.

“Eames!”

Eames jumped and then swore when he realised who was calling. Guiltily, he pretended he hadn’t heard and instead stared back into the darkness of the garden.

“Didn’t you fancy the look of the redhead?” Arthur teased him playfully, his voice soft but weary.

Eames closed his eyes, resisting the flood of emotion that threatened to spill out.

“Eames?” Arthur came closer. He sounded concerned now. “Are you okay?”

At this, Eames spun around to face him, about to admit to everything, but the intimacy of Arthur’s position shocked him and he took an awkward step back.

“I’m fine.” Eames said shortly, and stalked past Arthur back inside, “I could have had her if I’d wanted to.”

“Sure, you could” Arthur smirked but his sarcasm was tinged with hurt, “She was so out of your league.”

“And you’re not?” Eames retorted scathingly. He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “If it wasn’t for the bond-”

“The bond?” Arthur interrupted him angrily, “Don’t you dare blame anything on me.”

“I wasn’t going to!” Eames felt a stab of annoyance, “I just wished we hadn’t ever fucking met, then we wouldn’t be in this mess,” he waved a hand wildly, hiding his confusion with bitterness.

“Jesus,” Arthur swore, “Don’t you think I want that too? And, for your information, watching you with her was fucking _painful!_ ”

Anger rose in Eames, “You don’t own me, Arthur! I can do whatever the fuck I want. Whenever I want!”

“Well, don’t let me get in your way.”

“Maybe if you didn’t pressure me so much-”

“ _Me_ pressure _you_? You practically undress me with your eyes!”

Eames snapped, “That’s a fucking lie.”

Arthur raised his head in challenge, “Don’t bullshit yourself. You’re just scared and taking it out on me.”

“Hypocrite!”

“You’re a fucking coward, Eames. You’re terrified to end up like your parents, but, you know what? They were better off _dead_ than being bonded to someone like you!”

There was silence, Eames stared.

“I didn’t mean that.” Arthur shook his head, “I didn’t-.”

“Fuck off, Arthur.”

“Eames, I’m sorry, that was-”

“Fuck _off,_ Arthur.”

They stood together in the dark, both vibrating with barely restrained emotions, squaring off like boxers. The air was heaving around them, roiling and flowing like electricity, burning them whenever they tried to retort and stealing their breaths when they didn’t. For a while, they were still. Neither could move. Something made them stay.

Arthur sighed. What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn’t even that drunk, so he had no excuse for his behaviour. The stress of the non-consummated bond and the jealousy had him feeling all mixed up, but just because he was having a bad night didn’t mean he could take it out on the other man. Even if he was feeling freaked out and scared and really, really lonely. Across from him, Eames was watching with too bright eyes and a working jaw. His gaze took in the slender lines of the point man and he whimpered quietly to himself.

“Goddamn you, Arthur.” Eames whispered. “What are you doing to me?”

For a moment, Eames could vividly recall the dream he had the night before, but he furiously pushed it out of his mind before it became too real. There was nothing more to be done. They had bonded, whether they liked it or not, and now they had to face the consequences. They just had to try to not hurt each other too much in the process.

“I’m going back inside,” Eames muttered, trudging past Arthur, “Are you coming?”

Arthur hesitated, “No, need a smoke.”

“Okay, then,” Eames felt uncertain. He didn’t want to leave the man in the dark and cold, “See you in a minute.”

“Sure,” Arthur whispered, “See you.”

Eames headed in, fighting his way through the suffocating crowds to reach the table where the rest of the gang were gathered.

“You okay?” Dom asked him quietly as he settled down in the corner.

“Yeah, fine.” Eames lied, reaching for a half-empty glass.

“So, Dommie-boy, have you and Mal thought of any baby names?” Yusuf spoke much louder than he had intended to and seemed to have surprised himself. His look of fascination only lasted a second before his focus drifted.

Dom turned to Mal, having been put on the spot. “What do you think?”

Mal beamed, her teeth seeming very straight and white against her caramel skin. “I have a few ideas.” She delicately leaned towards Dom and pulled him in for a light kiss on the lips. “But I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“Ew, guys!” Yusuf complained, “No snogging – unless it’s spin the bottle!” There was a pause as he sniggered to himself. “Who’s up for a bit of fun?” The chemist wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Tiredly, Eames pointed out, “There’s only one girl, and she’s bonded.”

“I don’t want to spoil your fun. Besides, one peck won’t kill us,” Mal grinned mischievously, “Let me just go and grab some company.” She gracefully rose from the table and approached a group of young single girls. One of them was the one Arthur had talked to. Mal soon had them chatting animatedly before inviting them back over to the team.

“This is not gonna end well,” Eames muttered, his head on the table.

Dom raised an eyebrow, “Unless you tell her, Mal will be unstoppable.”

“Arthur wouldn’t want her to know.” Eames replied with a slightly mournful edge as the French women led her gaggle of girls to their seats.

Mal took charge as she carefully redid her hair. “Someone find a bottle.”

“I’ve got loads!” Yusuf offered helpfully.

“One will do.” Dom pointed out with a hint of sarcasm.

The chosen bottle was placed ceremoniously in the centre of the table. Everyone stared at it, anticipating its prophetic match-making skills.

Just then, Arthur appeared, slipping in to sit between a lady, who’d introduced herself as Naomi, and Eames. “Have I missed anything?” He asked quietly.

“Mal’s got us some new friends, and we’re playing spin the bottle.” Eames whispered out of the side of his mouth. There was no need to keep his voice down, but Eames liked the privacy it offered their conversation. Arthur nodded.

“Sorry, by the way.” Eames continued, “I was out of order.”

Arthur nodded again. He understood how fucked up the situation was, and felt just as helpless as the forger did. Both of them were under a lot of pressure, and he trusted how sincere the apology seemed to be, “It’s not your fault, and I’m, well, I’m sorry too. Really, really sorry.”

Eames lowered his gaze, feeling warmed inside, and he discreetly took Arthur’s hand in his own. His stomach fluttered with butterflies when he met with no opposition, and he dared to stroke Arthur’s skin with his thumb gently.

“Say something.” Arthur prompted him with a small grin.

Eames shook his head.

“Stubborn bastard.”

Even as Arthur was speaking, Mal had initiated the game by taking the first spin of the bottle. Everyone watched in suspended animation as it scraped around a full circle, before finally slowing to an agonising, teasing rest.

Dom yelled in mock horror at the result.

 “Lucy!” There was a shout of laughter around the table and one of Mal’s girls blushed furiously.

“Girl on girl action.” Yusuf joked approvingly.

“I’m not kissing her.” Mal said in bewilderment.

“You have to.” Eames teased, “The bottle has spoken.”

Mal glared at him hard, before acquiescing. “Fine.”

With deliberate slowness, she leaned across the table, grabbed the girl, Lucy, by the scruff of her neck and planted a decent kiss on her lips. Dom only flinched a little bit, but he was mainly smiling and cheering along with everyone else as Mal released Lucy and sat back in her chair, a faint look of smugness on her face.

“Bravo.” Dom laughed, “You spin now.”

Lucy flicked the bottle with a flourish and it obediently landed on Yusuf, who grinned stupidly as she shuffled closer. He kissed the girl enthusiastically for a few seconds before retreating triumphantly.

“You can thank me later.” He shot at Lucy, who pretended not to hear.

“He thinks he’s such a stud.” Arthur muttered to Eames, who suppressed a laugh in response, “But I think that was his first kiss.”

“How sweet.” Eames sniggered, “Imagine your first kiss being with a stranger in a bar.”

“That was your first kiss, wasn’t it?” Arthur teased him.

Eames shuddered, “How could you say that? I thought you were supposed to be my soul mate.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” Arthur amended his statement, “A stranger at the bar was your first fuck, wasn’t she?”

“Piss off. That’s verbal abuse.” Eames mock scowled at him. Arthur looked alarmed for a second, forcing Eames’ expression to soften. “But I forgive you.”

Arthur smiled. “You’re an idiot.”

“What can I say? I’m not perfect.” Eames shrugged.

“No, not perfect.” Arthur agreed thoughtfully, “But definitely an idiot.”

At that point, Eames was pulled away from their conversation by a summoning from Naomi, who had just kissed Dom.

Arthur averted his gaze as their lips locked, feeling a sharp burst of nausea.

“You taste like beer.” Eames complained as Naomi withdrew, giggling.

“You taste like…” She thought for a second, “Cherries.”

“What?” Eames pulled a face, “I don’t like cherries.”

She shrugged good-naturedly, “Your spin.”

Eames sighed, acting like he didn’t care. The truth was that his hands were shaking with nerves. There was only one person he wanted it to land on; the one person he hoped it wouldn’t be.

With a feeling of impending doom, he spun the bottle.

It moved with incredible grace, yet was somehow shaky and unpredictable. Eames followed its movement with his eyes, not daring to look away. It soared around the circle and made a complete round. At the last second it jumped, skimming past Arthur, and settled on Naomi.

“What!” Naomi protested, “I just had a go with him.” She didn’t look too annoyed, but it was clear she thought, in some ways, the rules had been bent.

“The bottle wants a replay.” Mal grinned. “Must have found last time lacking terribly in something.”

There was a general reaction from everyone at the table, and Naomi begrudgingly kissed Eames again with slightly more enthusiasm than before. Arthur swore under his breath.

“Better?” She grumbled.

“Much.” Mal smiled sweetly, “The bottle accepts your offering. You may spin again.”

Eames relaxed in his seat. Kissing the girl had been awkward on so many levels, especially with Arthur sitting right between them, but it was over now.

Naomi’s spin landed on Yusuf – who looked even more delighted than he had done with Lucy.

“Arthur!”

Arthur jumped at the sound of his own name.

“You’re up.” Dom laughed. “With Yusuf.”

Arthur looked down in horror at the bottle. There was no denying that the neck was pointing at him.

“What are you waiting for?” Yusuf didn’t recognise Arthur’s discomfort. He had enough beer to gloss over the fact this was the first male on male kiss so far that night. Yusuf didn’t even seem aware that there was anything the matter as he leaned past Eames and quickly kissed Arthur (with lips tightly closed) before he could protest.

Eames felt sick.

“Ew!” Lucy found it hysterical.

Yusuf hit her gently on the arm, “You kissed Mal, remember?”

“Yeah, but we’re girls. It’s different for girls.” Lucy explained slowly, blinking through the dull haze of alcohol. Yusuf just shook his head, not taking any of the cat calls and whistles seriously.

Arthur decided to get his turn over and done with and spun the bottle without any of the dramatic build-up from the previous turns.

It landed on Eames.

There was an odd moment, where both men stared at the bottle. There was no emotion to go with the moment, just numbness and a sense of surrealism. Arthur turned to face Eames. The noise of their friends had been muted out almost completely.

“We don’t have to,” Arthur said quietly, “It’s just a game.”

Eames stared at the bottle. His emotions suddenly came flooding back; his confusion and anger and disgust and denial and frustration. All of them at once. He found himself suffocating. They pounded against his ribs like a throbbing heart. They exploded inside his brain until his mind had been reduced to ash. They shook his body, and broke him, and fixed him, and then healed everything over until he was smooth and unscarred. He felt alive. Only one emotion remained. One strong, undeniable feeling; desire.

Eames suddenly broke from his reverie.

“Mal would know,” he whispered, and Arthur shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You would mind, though,”

“Maybe,” Arthur bit his lip and drew in a soft breath, “Your choice.”

Eames whimpered lowly in the back of this throat. He felt embarrassed to have even made the noise, but the strength of their bond, the urgency to consummate it, was driving his hormones wild. He studied Arthur’s face. The younger man looked unsure, perhaps a little scared. Very turned on.

“This is messed up,” Eames frowned, “This is the bond speaking, not us.”

“The bond _is_ us, now,” Arthur countered, ignoring the encouraging shouts from the others at the table.

“No going back.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Eames sighed. He drew away, leaving Arthur to exhale in confusion, “Not here. In front of these strangers. Just… not here.”

Arthur’s disappointment turned to acceptance, “Okay,” he agreed breathlessly, “Not here.”

Eames smiled with affection, and then resurfaced from their private bubble, “Sorry, guys, not tonight.”

Naomi and Mal made some light-hearted complaints, but were soon distracted as the game continued for a few more rounds. Eames kissed Mal, who kissed Dom, who kissed Lucy… at some point they grew bored and the silly, little game was forgotten.

 

 

 

 

They stumbled back to the Travelodge at an irresponsible time of night, exhausted and sated and, in Yusuf’s case, practically in a coma.  Mal and Dom immediately claimed one of the three rooms, locking the door unsubtly in their quest to spend quality time together.

Yusuf looked at Arthur and Eames with a slightly confused expression. “Where do we sleep?”

Arthur pointed down the hall, “Two of us are gonna have to share a bed. They’re double, mind, so it could be worse.”

Eames shared a look with the point man, and, after a second of uncertainty, they both looked away.

“Not yet,” Eames reiterated, and Arthur gave a sharp nod of agreement.

“Guess which one!” Yusuf clenched a bottle cap in his fist and then shoved his hands behind his back.

Arthur tapped his left shoulder accordingly, and was rewarded with an empty palm.

“So you’re sharing with…” Yusuf handed the point man the cap and Arthur obligingly hid it from their view, “Pick one, Eames.”

Eames did as he was told and chose the right hand. Arthur showed him the cap.

“Oh,” Yusuf looked crestfallen, “So I share with Arthur.”

“Lucky you,” Eames sniggered as he sauntered into his room, “Sweet dreams, now.”

The first half an hour of lying by himself in a double bed was a kind of luxury for Eames. His apartment was a bit rundown and uncared for in comparison. Plus, the distance from Arthur meant Eames had the space to order his thoughts without any inconvenient distractions.

But as the night wore on, Eames felt the bed get colder and colder. He curled in on himself, throwing the blankets over his head to reduce the chance of lost body heat, and tried to repress any shivers. Suddenly, his thoughts turned to Arthur, and his mind was subjected to a flash of an imagined image; Arthur lying in bed with Yusuf.

“Fuck,” Eames jerked upright. That had been intense, and unexpected.

Out of the darkness, his phone vibrated, making Eames jump again. It was an incoming text, from the point man.

**Yusuf’s fucking snoring >:(**

Eames bit out a laugh. That helped calm his fears a little. He quickly typed out a reply.

**Smother him with pillow. I’ll help u hide the body x**

His finger slipped, sending the ‘x’ unintentionally. He waited anxiously to see how the point man would respond.

**Tempting. But i don’t need any help hiding bodies :P**

The kiss had been overlooked then. Eames wondered if the emoticon was Arthur’s excuse to not make a decision about sending an ‘x’ of his own.

**Mayb u don’t, but when it comes to plotting murders, i find the more the merrier**

Should he have sent a kiss with that? It seemed so inconsistent, like he had been bothered by Arthur’s lack of kisses.

**2 many cooks… but i might make an exception 4 u x**

Eames stared at the screen. Arthur had sent him a kiss. Attached to the end of a compliment. What the fuck? Was this a cause to freak out? He fumbled over the keypad.

**Thnk u, I think?? PS pls don’t murder me 2, that last text sounded v ominous x**

The reply was instantaneous.

**I need you alive :P**

Well, that was certainly true. Eames frowned, wondering what a suitable response was. He needed a few things cleared up.

**Are we sexting? x**

The text took a while to come through.

**??**

Eames flushed with embarrassment.

**Never mind. Night night x**

He pressed send and then rolled over to go to sleep, already trying to decipher every single word that Arthur had just texted. The kisses had certainly been a bit confusing. Is that what casual friends sent each other? Eames had little experience with ‘casual friends’ so he had no way of really knowing whether that was an appropriate thing to do, but if it wasn’t the case… then what did those kisses mean? Were they meant in a romantic way? Eames felt queasy. In a sexual way? It was really too late to be thinking about such matters. Better to leave it until morning, when everyone had had a good night’s sleep. Well, everyone except Arthur, who was trapped in bed with a snoring Yusuf. Trapped next to him, right next to him. Their skin might be touching. What if Yusuf started snuggling during the night? What if he spread himself out over the mattress? Oh god, just imagine him draped all over Arthur, one arm slung across his chest, pinning the poor man to the bed-

Eames leaped up, crossed the room in a few strides and flung open the door. He marched to Arthur and Yusuf’s room, banging loudly. There was no answer, and so, without thinking it through, Eames shouldered in the door.

Travelodge doors were flimsy. This one flew across the carpet, landing with a solid thud.

Arthur jumped out of bed, raising his Glock with an alarmed expression on his face. Yusuf fell to the floor and made a noise that only a man who has been woken by someone kicking in his door can make.

“What the fuck, Eames?” Arthur cried, visibly trying to calm himself and not shoot the forger accidentally, “What’s happening?”

“I…” Eames took in the scene. It was worse than he had originally thought. Arthur wasn’t wearing a t-shirt. Yusuf was wearing _boxers._

“Well?” Arthur demanded, and Eames froze. He took a good look about and weighed up the possibility of danger. The panic he had felt earlier was subsiding, leaving him only pleasantly soothed by Arthur’s proximity.

“Have I just been crazy?” the older man asked, cocking his head in confusion, “I swear I had a good reason to break in.”

“Really? And what was that?” Arthur asked tiredly, already sitting down on the bed. He set his Glock down carefully.

“Erm…” Eames struggled to remember his original intentions, “Yusuf was snuggling.”

“No, I wasn’t!” Yusuf gaped, “That’s such a weird thing to break in for.”

“No, you were definitely doing something wrong,” Eames protested, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Leave, Eames.”

The older man frowned, “I’d rather not.”

“Why not?”

Eames gestured at Yusuf, who was still on the floor, “He might start snuggling again.”

“If he promises not to, will you leave?”

The forger considered this proposal, “Yes, but I’d probably be back.”

Arthur let out a chuckle, “There’s not much point you leaving at all then, is there?”

“No, none,” Eames agreed.

The point man turned to Yusuf, “You. Out. Now.”

“What? But I wasn’t doing anything wrong!”

Arthur shrugged, “Sorry.”

“But what if you die during the night? I’m supposed to be supervising you, remember?”

“I’ll take my chances, thank you.” Arthur smirked, “You can go; I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Yusuf stood up unsteadily, clutching his blanket and muttering under his breath about the ‘inconveniences of working with psychopaths’. He shuffled out of the room with one last mournful look at the warm bed.

“Well,” Arthur noted, already arranging himself back under the covers, “Are we sharing then?”

Eames paused, “I’ll be fine on the chair.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? You break down the door just to sit in the chair?”

“Hey,” Eames objected, “It was a very noble thing for me to do.”

“It was the result of a late night, too much alcohol, this stupid bond and poor decision making,” Arthur leaned back, regarding him with a slightly elevated eyebrow, “But don’t endanger your chivalric code on my behalf.”

“Don’t worry,” Eames retorted as he positioned the chair next to the bed and happily curled up against the leather, “I won’t.”

The pair quickly fell asleep, both very much aware of the other. For the first time in nearly a decade, Arthur dreamt. In his dreams the point man was in Central Park, watching the lake and waiting for his brother. In Eames’ dreams he was in London, falling in love for the first time.

They woke simultaneously, a breath apart, and eyed each other self-consciously.

“Sleep well?” Eames offered Arthur as a conversation starter, but the younger man merely nodded an uncertain affirmative and headed to the bathroom without a further word. He stepped under the shower, anxious to wash away the tension that had built up in his back and shoulders upon waking. There was a heat, like a storm, brewing in the base of his spine. It dragged him down, making his muscles feel heavy and tired.

“Need to cut back on the drinking,” Arthur muttered to himself as he lathered the shampoo into his hair and washed out the pomade. Faintly, he could hear Eames’ whistling, a vague tune, probably invented, in the bedroom as the other man dressed. Arthur lowered the heat of the water. The shower was hotter than he’d anticipated. It was burning. The steam was suffocating. Arthur’s vision flickered, and, with a horrifying lurch of his stomach, like when you’re asleep but think you’re falling, he staggered to the floor.

“Fuck,” Arthur panted. His migraine swept through his skull, and Arthur pressed his forehead against the floor. “Eames!”

There was water everywhere; in his mouth, his eyes, in the air he was trying to breathe.

“Eames!”

Too hot. Where was the oxygen in his lungs? Arthur choked. Felt sick. Retched.

Suddenly. Eames. The water stopped.

A voice. Soothing.

“Darling, look at me.”

Skin. Touch. Warmth, not burning.

“Arthur?”

Blood. Not his. Wet. Red.

Arthur raised his head from the tiles. Saw Eames.

“Call Yusuf,” he gasped. Eames nodded faintly. Red fingers fumbled with a phone.

Touch. Need. Touch.

Arthur curled his body around Eames’. Rested their foreheads together.

Blood on his skin now.

Not his. But his now.

Yusuf? Eames was speaking. His voice was strained.

Arthur couldn’t close his eyes.

So then. The world closed instead.

 

 

 

“You should have bloody well told me!” was the first thing Yusuf said when he realised Eames was conscious.

The forger blinked groggily, taking in his location with the trained eye of someone who was used to waking up in odd places. Next to him, skin inches away but not touching, sat Arthur. The point man was already awake, quietly reviewing some documents in a manila folder. He glanced up when the older man stirred and smiled softly. His eyes were dark and haunted with worry, and so Eames did his best to smile back, although the dried blood creasing his face cracked under the pressure.

“You’re a fucking awful friend!” Yusuf continued his tirade, and Eames tried to focus because it was obvious the chemist was dangerously pissed off. “Did it never occur to you that the fact you had bonded was something you should have shared with me?”

Eames raised a hand tiredly, “I’m sorry, mate. I just couldn’t-”

“You could have! I told you, _I told you_ that if you needed to talk I was there and I’d listen and try to help, but, _no_ , you keep me in the dark and expect me to be okay with it when I find the pair of you lying with blood everywhere on the bathroom floor!”

“I wanted to tell you,” Eames began, but stopped abruptly when he saw the murderous expression on Yusuf’s face.

The chemist narrowed his eyes, “No, you didn’t. Of course you didn’t. You’re the most versatile person I know, the most fluid in his personality, and yet the one thing that has been a constant your whole life – _the one thing_ that you hated more than anything else – was that you didn’t want to be bonded. Ever. So I’m really not surprised if you didn’t _want_ to tell me. I get that. But the fact remains you _should_ have told me.”

Eames arranged his features in his most sheepish expression, “Sorry, mate.”

The second apology seemed to placate Yusuf a bit, and his angry gesturing calmed down, “I could have helped you, you know.”

“I know,”

“Then why?”

Eames shrugged, “I was ashamed,” he avoided Arthur’s eye but could still feel the emotion rolling off the point man, “Like you said, I’d made it very clear what I thought of soul mates, and I was… ashamed.”

Yusuf’s gaze warmed and he sighed helplessly, “I wouldn’t have judged.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would have,” Eames agreed sadly, “But I was.”

At this, Arthur reached out and grasped his hand. The touch was nice; reviving, and Eames felt less tired and bruised.

“Skin contact seems to be good for healing,” Arthur muttered, slightly red-cheeked, “It seems tomorrow is our one hundred and fiftieth day, and our bodies reacted a little prematurely.”

“You’re okay now, though,” Yusuf put in, “Just a side effect. Nothing more.”

Eames nodded mutely, enjoying the sensation of his soul mate’s touch. Arthur seemed to be relaxing by the second; his shoulders dropping and his frown fading.

“I really recommend that you two consummate the bond as soon as possible,” Yusuf advised, “It’s not safe to be walking around without a full bond.”

“We know,” Arthur said hastily as Eames’ withdrew his hand, “It’s just… complicated.”

Yusuf regarded them, “Well, uncomplicated it. Soon,” he stood up grandly, “I’ll leave you alone for now, but if you feel queasy or light-headed at all, give me a shout.”

Eames mock saluted him; a lazy movement that still carried the stiffness of a military career. Arthur laughed quietly. He was curled at the far end of the sofa. His feet were just brushing against Eames’ legs.

“It’s ridiculous,” the point man sighed, “I’ve faced mafia families and walked away less battered than a single night with you.”

“Mafia families? As in, plural?” Eames raised an eyebrow.

“Well, technically, only _one_ mafia family. They’re just called crime families if they’re not Italian.”

“Reassuring, isn’t it, that the man I bonded with has to be the most endangered creature on the planet.”

“Well,” Arthur sniffed, “There _is_ just one of me.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

Arthur poked him good-naturedly, “But, in all seriousness, we will both go extinct if we don’t consummate the bond. It’s just one kiss. Nothing too terrible. I’ve been told I am an excellent kisser.”

“I may need to check those credentials,” Eames ran a hand through his hair, “But that doesn’t really make this anymore appealing.”

“Is it the idea of kissing a guy that creeps you out?”

Eames laughed, “In year ten, I was caught snogging Mathew Barker. Can’t say I’ve repeated the experience while sober, but, still, I don’t care too much about that.”

“So it’s just the bond then.”

“Yeah.”

 Arthur nodded quietly, “Do you think, once we kiss, it’ll stop hurting?”

Eames knew instinctively that Arthur wasn’t referring to their physical pain, rather the emotional pain he felt around Mal.

“I hope so,” he whispered kindly.

Arthur pulled a face, and then, straightening out his features, he hid any vulnerability under a stoic mask. Reaching out, the point man placed a ream of official looking documents on Eames’ lap. “These are the Bond Registration forms.”

Eames stared at them, “You filled them out already?”

“I think what you _meant_ to say there was, ‘you took the initiative and sorted it out because it’s been one hundred and forty nine days and we still haven’t filled in any forms’.” Arthur did his best impression of a British accent. It sounded Australian.

Eames inspected the first sheet, “You haven’t filled in my name.”

“I don’t know it.”

“You’ve said I’m a writer.”

“Better than thief.”

“And you’re an events planner.”

“I’ve been told I have an eye for detail.”

Eames read the information and then looked at Arthur incredulously, “You’re thirty two?”

“How old did you think I was?” Arthur frowned at him.

“Like, thirteen.”

Arthur deadpanned, “Is that one of your kinks?”

“Don’t tell me they need to write that on the form as well.”

Arthur sniggered, “They do. Right there, under ‘sexual proclivities’.”

“Oh, yes,” Eames peered at the paper, “Hmm… you’re quite the sexual deviant.”

“I’m sure Mathew Barker would say you were one too.”

Eames chuckled, setting the form aside for the time being. He stretched his legs out so they rested on Arthur’s lap, “I never thought I’d end up talking to you about sex.”

“Might as well get used to it.”

“I am _not_ having sex with you, Arthur.”

“That escalated quickly.” Mal was stood in the doorway, smiling prettily to herself. Dom rolled his eyes, shooting the pair an apologetic look as he walked past his wife and into the room. It wasn’t the worst thing he’d overheard Eames saying.

“How are you feeling?” Dom settled on the opposite sofa, making room for Mal to squeeze in beside him.

“Like shit,” Eames informed them breezily.

“You need to consummate the bond,” responded Mal, who’d obviously been filled in after the incident, “Just get it over with. You don’t even need to do it again afterwards.”

“I wish people would stop telling us to kiss!” Eames huffed, “It’s bloody annoying.”

“But the kiss is amazing!” Dom protested, “When we consummated, it was like a rainbow. In our mouths. While we were kissing.”

“That’s a horrid simile,” Arthur eyed the older man with concern, “Besides, why did you get a rainbow? You’re heterosexual.”

“ _Everyone_ gets rainbows,” Dom explained sagely, “Not just the gays.”

“Oh! Stop procrastinating!” Mal exclaimed as she stood up. Crossing the room, she hauled Arthur up off the sofa and kissed him fully on the lips before either of their soul mates could react.

“Mal!” Arthur cried, pushing her away futilely. Her grip was strong and she engaged him once again in a full-on snog.

Suddenly Eames rose, filled with a possessive jealously. Without thinking, he wrenched the pair apart and ended up facing Arthur, their lips almost brushing and their breaths coming out in pants. Arthur gazed at him, standing very still and not daring to move. One of Eames’ thumbs carefully swept along his cheekbones, but at the last minute, he pulled away, shooting Mal a dark look as he collapse back on the sofa.

“That’s was a dirty trick, Mal,” he reproached her.

Arthur was shaking, trembling like a caged bird. There was a wild look in his eye, and Eames felt the panic rise inside of him until Arthur choked out, “I don’t love you, Mal.” He turned to face Eames, grinning weakly, “I don’t love her.”

“You don’t?” Eames asked with uncertainty, needing confirmation.

“No. That was an awful kiss. Nothing like I remember,” Arthur was ignoring the couple and staring resolutely at the forger, “It used to burn and make me feel drunk. Now, it was actually pretty crap. She kisses differently. She kisses like she’s kissing Dom.” Arthur touched his lips in wonder, “I don’t love her anymore.”

“Well, mate,” Eames broke into a smile of relief, “I’m pleased for you.”

“I thought consummation would break it, but there was nothing to break. I haven’t loved her in years. I was in love with my loneliness, in love with memories.” Arthur still looked stunned, “I can’t believe it.” He looked round the room, barely acknowledging Mal, “Fuck, I need a cigarette.” He patted down his pockets, “You,” he directed this to Eames, “You owe me a cigarette.”

Eames laughed once, happily, “Okay, I’ll get you a pack.” He shrugged on a coat, “Don’t die while I’m out.”

“Is it safe?” Mal sounded concerned, “I could get you some if you’d rather Eames stay.”

“Don’t worry,” Eames assured her lightly, “We’ll be fine.”

 

 

 

 

It wasn’t fine.

 

 

 

 

Breathing was difficult. It seemed Eames’ lungs were coated in a thin layer of dust which made every inhalation burn harshly like dry fire. But it wasn’t just the dust that prevented him from breathing; a sweaty, nihilistic fear closed up his throat.

He coughed. His lips were dry.

There was silence in the room. The neon lights flickered uneasily, one bulb losing strength and fading, while any natural light was prohibited from entering by heavy wooden boards across the window. Then, with a decisive, calculated move, a man moved in front of him and pulled the trigger.

Eames’ heart lurched and he flinched, but the bullet had been aimed at the wall behind his head.

“That has to be one of the more interesting greetings I’ve received in my life.” The forger spoke without emotion, watching his captor carefully, measuring his power against his own.

“Let’s skip the pleasantries,” the man replied smoothly, “We both know we are dreaming right now, which means we both know the consequences of you not complying with my wishes.”

Eames stared at the gun. The room was too hot, but the sculptured metal seemed cold and he found herself shivering, “I’m not much of a team player, I’m afraid.”

The man laughed, “I didn’t expect you to be.” There was a strange lightness to his voice. “Selfish. Egotistical. A lone wolf.” He cocked the gun once more. “That’s what I’ve heard about you.”

“My fame precedes me.” Eames smiled faintly. “But you seem to have me at a disadvantage. I’ve never met you.” The forger paused. “But maybe you’re working for someone I know, or maybe you’re not wearing your real face.”

“Does it really matter to you?” The man shrugged.

“Every detail matters,” Eames frowned, “Only idiots don’t know that.”

The man stared at him in annoyance. Then, with violence intense enough to prove a point, he smashed the gun into Eames’ face. His vision flicked and his head rolled back.

“Fuck off,” Eames whispered once he recovered, blood dripping onto his skin.

“John Meyer has informed us of your extraction attempt on my client. He willingly gave us a great level of detail, but we need to know exactly what you are planning.” The man wiped the blood off his gun with a pleasant expression on his face, “You will tell me.”

“I don’t feel like telling.”

“Do you feel like dying?” The man raised an eyebrow, “We may be in a dream now, but your body is currently surrounded by enemies with guns. We’d rather not have to make the effort of cleaning up a murder, so we are willing to let you go alive, but we will if we have to.”

He cradled the gun and spun the cylinder with calm fingers, but wouldn’t let it come to a rest. Instead he kept it spinning, the clicking transforming into a beating heart in his hands. Eames watched him. A small, white scar marred his eyebrow and his suit was cheap and off the rack. The forger couldn’t help but think that he was very competent at killing but less experienced at dreaming, yet nothing except the spinning, spiralling cylinder gave any evidence of this.

All of a sudden the clicking stopped and silence fell over the scene.

“Who are your team members?”

“John, Paul, Ringo and George.”

The gunshot splintered the silence, folding Eames in half. He jerked in the chair, a new, bizarre pain spreading outwards from his torn shoulder.

The man didn’t look but stood silently for a minute. Then he put the gun away, and moved to the door. “You have five minutes to recover before I ask again. Prepare a better answer in this time.”

Eames waited until the door was locked before he lowered his head, letting out a soft moan. He wondered how much time was on the clock before the dream ran out. Would they kill him before then? This was a completely unexpected turn of events. All he had gone out for was cigarettes for Arthur…

Eames paused. He felt as if Arthur was nearby, a strange tugging feeling in his chest. If he could just focus on that, give him something to cut through the pain, maybe he would get through this alive. Eames was a good liar, he knew he was. Maybe he wouldn’t die today.

He caught on to the feel of Arthur. In his mind, it was a silvery-blue thread connecting the two of them. Eames blinked in surprise. As he imagined it, it happened. The blue thread weaved around his body, soothing the damage done by the gun and the ropes.

“Arthur!” Eames gasped. The pain had sharpened suddenly like it had doubled in intensity. He wanted the point man. Arthur would know what to do. Arthur would comfort him. Arthur would fucking fight for him.

“Eames?” came Arthur’s voice, as quiet as the static on a blank TV screen. Eames blinked. Then, the man stepped in front of him, almost solid, almost real, faint and silvery blue.

“Are you a projection?” Eames murmured in confusion.

Arthur looked far more confused, “No. I was with Mal and Dom, sketching out the first level, and I just closed my eyes for a second.” He looked around, “Where are we?”

“In a dream.”

“Oh, fuck. Are you alright?” Arthur voice was tinged with barely hidden concern, “Who’s dream is it?”

“I don’t know. Some bastard was here earlier asking me about the job. I haven’t said anything. How did you get here?”

Arthur frowned, “It feels like day-dreaming. I’m still at my desk if I look hard, but there’s this flat, two dimensional image in front of me too, of you and this room.”

“Is it the bond?”

“Probably. Mal and Dom have mentioned similar experiences.”

“Cool,” Eames grinned, and then flinched as the movement jostled his shoulder.

“Where are you?” Arthur crouched in front of him. His fingers felt solid and reassuring against Eames’ cheek, “I’ll come and pick you up.”

Suddenly, there was a harsh banging and unintelligible voices could be heard through the concrete walls. Eames and Arthur shared a look, and the point man assumed a defensive position in front of the chair.

The door swung open with a heavy groan of corrugated metal and the man stalked in. Arthur tensed, but he was ignored, almost as if the point man was invisible.

“Have you decided upon a new answer?” the man asked calmly, “Or will you next be telling me that you are working with Harry, Louis, Liam, Niall and Zayne?”

“The fact you know all the members of One Direction scares me more than that gun you’re carrying around.”

The man rammed it into his stomach, causing Eames to cough as the air was knocked out of him. Arthur bristled and tried hitting the man, but his hand passed through him like a ghost.

“Motherfucker,” the point man growled, having to take his anger out verbally rather than physically. The man didn’t hear, but it made Eames smile.

“Are you scared of the gun yet, Mr Eames?” he asked coolly, “Now, tell me your team mates names.”

Arthur placed a hand protectively on his shoulder.

“No.”

The gun connected with his temple now, but Arthur supported his head so his neck wasn’t strained.

“Tell me.”

“No.”

This time the blow made Eames cry out in pain. He couldn’t help a few sobs escaping even as he glared darkly at his captor.

“You might as well just tell me, because we both know this information is hidden inside this computer.” The man held up a netbook as evidence of this. Unable to stop it, Eames sensed his entire knowledge flood into the hard drive, automatically filling the safe place with secrets, “We will hack in, but I’d be a lot happier, and a lot more generous, if you did me the courtesy of telling me the truth.”

Arthur wiped blood from Eames’ eyes, and let his touch sooth the forger. Eames looked a mess now but there was still fire in his words, “Fuck off.”

The bullet tore through his stomach, taking out a few organs with it. Eames screamed. His hands tore uselessly at the ropes. Black was tunnelling his vision and his heart was beating too loudly and too slowly.

“Tell me.”

He barely had the breath to whisper, “No.”

There was no punishment this time; the man carefully set the laptop down and began typing. “If you haven’t told me by the time I read it here myself, then we will kill you.”

“Asshole!” Arthur swore. His hands fluttered over Eames’ wounds, but there was little he could physically do, his hands dissolved against the rope, “He’s not much of a hacker,” Arthur whispered into Eames’ ear like it was a secret, “He’s started off with complex passwords, and completely missed out the easy ones. That’s lazy.”

Eames made a soft noise of acknowledgement.

“What’s the password?” Arthur asked curiously, even as he attempted to apply pressure to the wounds with his hands to prevent the bleeding, “Is it me?”

This was said as a joke, but, after a moment’s hesitation, Eames nodded minutely.

“Oh,” Arthur said carefully, “That’s…” He sounded at a loss and cleared his throat. “I think you can stop him. It’s your information after all. You can use it against him.”

Eames made a questioning face, and Arthur explained, “You can feel it. Him hacking away at your mind. If you can control it, you can stop him from seeing it. You can hide it somewhere else.”

“Nowhere safe,” Eames breathed, feeling blood run down the back of his throat. His voice was too inaudible for Arthur to hear clearly, so he placed his ear next to the forger’s mouth. “Nowhere safe,” Eames said again, his lips brushing against the point man’s skin.

“Here,” Arthur pulled out his moleskine, flipped it open to reveal blank pages, “I’ll keep it safe for you. Any secrets, anything you don’t want him to know, related to the job or not, you can put in here. You can trust me.”

Eames moaned in pain, but Arthur’s grip was strong enough to keep him from passing out. Silently, words began to form on the pages, dark letters against the white. Arthur averted his gaze. Instead he watched Eames’ face, searching for signs of vulnerability.

Ink spread over the paper. Words looped across each other. Images and numbers and names covered the blankness until the moleskine was full.

“Good, that’s good,” Arthur let his hand brush against Eames’ back as he returned the notebook into his inside jacket pocket. The man still sat at the laptop, trying to crack the password. None of the information remained on the hard drive.

“Now, can you remember where you are?” Arthur asked urgently, “Anything we can use to locate you?”

Eames shook his head. Any memories before this point were dark and shadowy. Arthur was the only thing that stood out clearly in his mind.

“Piece of crap!” The man hissed suddenly, jarring both their attention over to him. He hunched over the laptop, banging on the keys with seemingly little results. “Fucking useless little shit.”

“Bad workman blames his tools,” Arthur murmured, and Eames huffed a quiet laugh. It was enough to alert the man though, and he swung around to face his prisoner.

“Okay,” he roared, striding over, “Who are you working with? I want names!”

Eames bit his tongue and regretted it a second later when a blow to the temple knocked his teeth into it. He spat out blood, and the man grabbed his hair, pulling his face upwards.

“What are you planning?”

The man twisted his fist, causing Eames to flinch.

“Speak, Goddamn it!”

All the while, Arthur was by his side, whispering nonsensical words. Eames tried to slow his breathing. He focused on the point man’s voice and it rose above the pain.

“You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.” Arthur chanted, his hands sliding up his shoulders to cup Eames’ face. He pressed their foreheads together, blocking out the sight of the captor, “I promise you’ll get through this. I’ll find you, okay?”

Eames lifted a weak hand to curl around Arthur’s waist and he dragged him nearer, until Arthur filled his senses. There was no room, no chair, no ropes, just Arthur. He closed his eyes.

The man continued to lash out and strike Eames, drawing blood and coaxing out bruises, but it didn’t matter. Because Arthur was there. Arthur was protecting him from the pain in his mind.

“Who are you working with?”

“I’m here, Eames.”

“Tell me!”

“I’m not leaving.”

“I swear to God I’ll fucking kill you!”

“I’m going to stay with you.”

“You will?” Eames asked, his voice a hoarse rasping. The captor didn’t even realised he’d spoken, but Arthur, body close against his, caught every word.

“I will.”

The point man leaned forward and pressed his lips to Eames’ forehead. The warmth it left grew hotter, radiating out as it poured over his skin like honey. Blue and silvery-grey twisted and curled through the air, connecting Arthur and Eames. The space between them burned, and Arthur’s image grew darker, more real. His hands were solid against the chair, he felt the damp heat of the room and Eames’ blood on his clothes.

The captor jerked back, staring directly at the point man, “What the fuck-”

Arthur glanced at his body in surprise and then smiled menacingly. Without warning he swung out his fist, rocketing into the captor’s gut, and twisted the gun out of his grip in a single, fluid movement.

The man cried out in pain, and Arthur grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against a wall, “If you do anything to hurt him again, I will fucking end you.” He shook the man once, roughly, “Do you understand?”

“You’re just a projection!” he gasped, clutching uselessly at Arthur’s fingers around his throat.

“Oh, I’m perfectly real,” the younger man snarled, “My name is Arthur. I’m the best fucking point man in the business and this man is under my protection. You ask your friends, you ask John Meyer about me and you will hear stories that will give you nightmares for a month. I will kill you if you hurt him, and I will take my time with it.”

“What does he matter to you?” the captor wheezed, “He’s collateral.”

“He’s my soul mate,” Arthur spat, “I will rip the world to pieces with my bare hands for him, and I certainly don’t care if _you_ , my friend, end up as ‘collateral’ in the process.” Arthur kneed him sharply in the gut and the man yelped in pain, “You hurt him, you better be ready for me. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, yes!” The man whimpered, shuddering under his grip, “We’ll leave him, I swear, we’ll leave him alone.”

“Good,” Arthur released the man and he dropped to the floor like a rag doll, “Now wake us up.”

Eames plunged out of the dream into cold, fresh air, gasping and panting as he body fought against injuries that weren’t there. He barely had time to sit up before his phone was ringing. He answered it with shaking fingers.

“Eames.” Arthur’s voice sounded relieved, “Where are you?”

The forger did a quick scan of his surroundings, and his heart sunk when he realised where he was, “St Mark’s graveyard, outskirts of Manchester. I’m alone.”

“I’m coming.” Arthur said curtly. He hung up and Eames slumped back down on the floor, wearily reassuring himself that he was still in one piece. The rain had made the ground muddy, and footprints were imprinted into the dirt. From the look of it, there had been three men, just recently left.

Eames staggered to his feet. His heart was hammering as if he was in a warzone, but the graveyard was deathly silent compared to Iraq. The forger stumbled through the rows, his feet automatically going the accustomed way, but his mind was all over the place. Eventually, he came to a stop, facing a single headstone with familiar names carved into it.

_William Michael Eames, 1945 – 1973, soul mate to Winifred Eames, 1947 – 1973, loving parents of Robert Eames._

The stone was rough after years of being subjected to the English weather and half the message was worn away but Eames knew every single word by heart. He crouched in front of the headstone, burying his face in his arms and whispering half-forgotten prayers to himself.

“Eames?” Arthur padded softly over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

The forger looked up, quickly standing in a rush of embarrassment, “How did those bastards know this was where they were buried?”

Arthur swallowed, “It’s just a coincidence.”

“Do you really believe that?” Eames sighed, running a hand over his face, “I don’t think I do. I don’t think it can be.”

“Trust me,” Arthur nodded at the graves, “Those assholes were too stupid to have worked it out.”

“I hope so,” Eames sounded distant, and Arthur felt a jolt of fear.

“Are you okay?”

Eames smiled at him, “You saved me. Of course I’m okay.”

“You let me into your dream,” Arthur whispered, “It was like I was there.”

“I guess, in a way, you were,” Eames replied, “But what if you hadn’t been? What if they killed me? Then you’d be dead too.”

“They wouldn’t have-”

“They came close and they were, as you so eloquently said, stupid arseholes. What if it’s someone cleverer, someone like Greene, or Tracy McDuff, or Shiner? I’m putting you in danger.”

“If they come, they come,” Arthur said firmly, “And we’ll fight them off.”

“Our luck will run out,”

“Not if we’re together,”

“It’s not worth the risk.”

“Yes! It is!” Arthur wrapped his arms around Eames’ neck, “Imagine us looking out for each other. We’ll have each other’s back and we’d be unstoppable.” He grinned, “We make a good team; all we need to do is consummate this fucking bond.”

Eames flinched, “We can’t do it. It’s not safe.”

“If we don’t kiss, then we’ll probably die tomorrow anyway,” Arthur pointed out, “Please, Eames, have faith in me. Let me be your soul mate.”

The forger shrugged off his arm, half turning towards the headstone, “I don’t want to end up like them. I’m not gonna let it happen.”

“End up like them?” Arthur repeated, “I would love to end up like your parents!”

Eames shot him an enquiring look, and Arthur waved an impatient hand towards the grave, “They loved each other, you idiot! Most people would kill to have what they had.”

“What if they hadn’t been bonded?” Eames tried, “You don’t know-”

“Read the inscription.” Arthur ordered him.

“What?”

“Read it, what it says below the names.”

Eames pulled a face but obediently recited, “ _Our love is deeper than our souls.”_

“There you go!” Arthur beamed, “Evidence that they loved each other.”

But Eames was shaking his head, “No, my father didn’t say that to Mum. He said that to me. The last thing he said to me, in fact.”

Arthur paused, “Before he died?”

“The nurse called me and I was terrified because he was so ill. He was lying with my mother and he told me to sit next to the bed. He spoke to me. In his last moments, while his soul mate was dying beside him, his last words were to me. He ignored her. He spoke to me and they both died without even glancing at the other.”

Arthur reached out and hugged Eames, drawing his trembling body in protectively, “It wasn’t because he didn’t love her,” Arthur whispered, “He just knew that the person who needed reassurance was _you_ , not his soul mate. His last words were to you because you needed to hear them.”  

“He didn’t look at her.”

“He didn’t need to.” Arthur rested his head against Eames’ shoulder, “She knew he loved her.”

“How did she know?”

“She knew from the moment they first met, from the moment they bonded. Most people don’t have to deal with frying pan injuries.”

Eames had to grin at that, “So you think they loved each other?”

“Of course they did,” Arthur said calmly, “Deeper than their souls, remember?  Your parents didn’t abandon you, Eames. They just had to leave.”

“Because they were bonded.”

“Because of life! Bad things happen all the time, to soul mates and to ordinary people. It didn’t change how they felt about each other, or for you.”

Eames was silent, staring at the grave like it held all the answers, “Okay,” he said at last, simply, as if the word came easily, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Arthur turned Eames to face him, and slowly, very gently, he pressed their lips together. The kiss was warm and soft, their tongue slid against the other pleasantly and Arthur hummed happily deep in his throat. Eames pulled him closer, his hands tugging at the point man’s waist until Arthur obliged, stepping forward until there wasn’t a single body part that wasn’t touching. A silvery-blue band unfurled around their ring fingers, a bonding mark that from a distance would look like wedding rings. Eames drew back to examine his, and raised his hand for Arthur to see, “We bonded.”

Arthur’s heart fluttered, “We did.”

“Guess we have to fill those forms in,” Eames mused.

“Well, at least I know your name now, _Robert_ ,” Arthur sniggered in response, nodding at the headstone, “No secrets left between us.”

“No, I suppose not,” the forger smirked, “Although we have a whole lifetime ahead of us to make more secrets. I’m planning on being very enigmatic.”

“I’m sure you are,” Arthur rolled his eyes, and moved away, “Now, do you want to hunt down these bastards and make them pay before the tracks disappear, or what?”

Eames chuckled, “You say the most romantic things.”

“Yeah, well this is the only honeymoon you’re getting, so you better fucking enjoy it.”

Eames took one last look at his parents’ graves, “I get the feeling that I will.”

Arthur grinned, slotting their hands together, “You know, you’d be my password too.”

 

 

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what did you think? Please leave kudos/comment if you liked it and I will love you forever!
> 
> It didn't feel appropriate to include a sex scene so I'm very sorry! But to make up for it, I'm considering continuing this Soul Mates 'verse and writing a few more pieces on their bond etc. If you have any prompts for this I would love to hear them, and will do my best to work them into the stories. I have a few ideas of my own already, but caring is sharing :)
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos/comment if you liked!


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